The Winter Report

We learn more about Dockens childhoods, as he reads a winter report from when he was a teenager.

So my mum and dad love christmas. Too much. I turned eleven a few months ago, and for all those years, when it got dark, the house has always been dipped in lights and reefs and snowmen and ornaments and I loved it. Our house was massive, we had a porch that had steps leading down to the rest of the world made of stone. There was a balcony just above, that the landing had access to, lights held on tightly to the balcony as well as a massive reef. On the left hand side was the the garage, the garage roof was accessible from my room by another balcony. So I used to come out there at night when I couldn’t sleep and stare at the stars, wrapped up in my sleeping bag and think. Occasionally I would fall asleep, and my mother would flip if she knew I slept there, so when my Dad came in to wake up me up, and realised I’d been sleeping on the garage again, he’d take me inside and put me back in my bed. I only realised this years later. He always made me something, like toast or hot chocolate when this happened. I think he thought I did this when something was wrong, maybe I did. All the windows had shutters, except for mine, but that’s another story. My dad had always gingerly lit the roof with the warm glow of lights from what I can tell from pictures. When I was a kid, I begged to help him put them up because I wanted to help dad guide Santa to our house. My mum, would prudently place lights throughout the hedges, with perfect contrast. The grass was warmly lit up and looked wonderful. The ornaments were reused again and again until they were barely recognisable as a festive tradition, and then used one more time. These would be all scattered across our lawn lit up 10 hours a night. My mother took so much pride in the lawn and flowers and other things that made the house look pleasing, it was hard to cram all the ornaments into it without damaging anything. I wasn’t sure what exactly made everything look nice, it all just kind of worked, I guess my sister got her creativity. I remember thinking that, as I looked across the garden, whilst holding the ladders for Dad. I assumed that I would have the privilege of receiving his traits, if I was anything like him I would love it. He has never once said no, or been angry and always helps me even when I definitely don’t deserve it. I never understood why either. My grandad is just the same, I guess my Dad got the privilege of his traits.

We had a swimming pool in the back. There was an outside roof covering this wooden table with chairs that we had meals on in the summer. In the winter, me and my sister would turn on the lights and liked to hang out there, it was never cold, and I never understood why. She would write. She had all these amazing stories and I was her number one fan. I think she liked me being her first reader, because up till then, everyone that read the stories said they were really good. When I read ‘`Dry Walking in the Rain’; this story about ‘Pierre’ chasing his escaped umbrella in the pouring rain, I straight up told her what was bad, and what I would find better, and for the first time she got some criticism. Exactly what she’d been asking for.  She wrote poetry as well, to which I never learned to appreciate until my teacher Mr.Armo. He was the first teacher that asked us for written work, marked it, and wanted us to improve it. It gave the whole thing a purpose and I wanted to succeed. He said what was irrelevant, bad and how to improve and I really wanted to impress him and for the most part I think I did. I only really engaged with him the last year I had him, and I wish I had him for my last year at school. We’d discuss the work he’d assigned the class, and I suggested ideas about the writers intentions. He definitely up there as one of my favorite teachers. When mum and dad fought, my sister would take me out there and give me the latest installment of her novel. I always suspected she wrote the female lead as herself, and put herself into these situations, whether she liked imagining being in these situations or not I hadn’t decided. As kids we were very close, we spent time in the same rooms and what was mine was hers. But then all of a sudden these lumps grew from her chest and she didn’t really speak to me anymore. She started to annoy me aswell, she’d take things for granted and not help around the house, but my dad would always make sure she had what she needed. But in the pre-lumps time, our christmas’s were our own little world.

I’d pack up the essential items from my room: my duvet and Binky: my teddy, and also pillow: my pillow, then I’d migrate to her room for the night. We put films on, but didn’t really watch them, we just wanted the background noise. She’d sit up at her bed, her pillow stacked up like the back of a chair, duvet hugged her, and book and pencil. She always wrote in pencil, I think she was a bit of a perfectionist because he pages were never torn out and always perfect. Her room was massive and covered in purple and pink colours. She had snowflakes made of paper hanging in one corner of the ceiling, a bulb in a glass jar that made the greatest parts of her room shine brightly. There was a bright blue small ladder hanging horizontal, that pegs hung from and she planned out her outfit for the next day. When we were younger our grandad presented the art of origami to us, and he said one time that his favorite shape was this bird like figure. I made loads, I thought it would impress him, anyway eventually my sister took all of my bird creations and stuck them on this one wall, and It looked just like they were in a swarm flying away at different heights. Each of them belonged to each other and I loved that. I think being a bird would be an alright life, I’d want to live in paris, it’s full of food and wonderful views, and nice bird ladies.  I wouldn’t stay in one place for long though, not with that power of changing my life in a few hundred thousand flaps. She got good grades at school and quite enjoyed it too. She said English was her favorite subject, maybe she had Mr.Armo too. Her teacher now reads through her work that she writes on top of assigned work and has sent a few things to one of her old friend. She was so happy that day, or really infuriated, or annoyed and then happy. I’m not sure, because she didn’t make her work perfect like normal. It was strange. I think her teachers friend liked her work, maybe, I don’t know. It wasn’t helping her blood pressure, she had to take medication to lower it because of the kidney disease. It hasn’t stopped her doing much though, shes a very strong person. After some retouching her story about Pierre got published in a section dedicated to up and coming authors. Anyways, most nights we’d swap the movies for music, and just talk. When the conversation ended, we’d listen to lyrics until we got inspired for a new conversation. Occasionally she’d feel upset, and I could always tell when she was, mum couldn’t though. I’d grab a fine selection of junk food, and knock on her door. When she predictably shouted ‘GO AWAY!’, I’d send in a peace offering of the finest food I had that day. The door would open, and she’d take more food, and we’d talk. I don’t know why, but getting her out of her room made things better. So we took the music, the food and Binky out on top of the garage roof and just talk for hours. I guess she didn’t mind telling me anything because we don’t tell our parents the bad stuff about each other, even when we fight which is hardly ever and I don’t know the people she talks about. I liked hearing about her life, it was like this whole new world I would someday experience.

Throughout me and my sisters holiday break, family or friends would come over for a meal. I wondered why we only spend time with people around holidays, was this the purpose of holidays? I mean everyone looks forward to seeing everyone again, but can’t wait till they leave. The whole process of giving a gift such as wine to the host, seems to be a requirement not just a token of appreciation. It’s expected, and loses all meaning. It’s almost like you’re paying to have this night with people that you’re going to end up resenting. As the night goes on, at least in my family’s experiences, people say more and more hurtful things to each other.

The idea of society seems to be broken, and I think I’m the only one that has noticed and I hate that. Happiness isn’t spending time with people anymore. That’s how we have adapted, we see these other sacks of pulsating liquid as a threat to us. I know we have all felt what others are capable of, and I know we’re not prepared to feel again, I know being a recluse is now the best way people socialise but I don’t know if we'll ever adapt again. Isolation was once looked at as insanity, but now it seems the only way we can save ourselves from the holiday meals.

“That was a report on my winter break when I was a kid. It goes on for a bit longer but I got off topic a bit so I figured I’d end there.” I had the kids attention throughout the whole of reading this time. I started the lesson with reading their ‘essays’ on how Hemingway's thoughts made them feel. I wasn’t too pleased with what was produced but then again I didn’t expect a lot. I thought about telling them why they should try, but then decided I wont be preaching prick, and instead slowly turn their feelings on trying hard in school eventually. A general discussion appeared in the class about how Neil’s party was sick and who’s a s**t, and who hooked up and what not. I decided to look through my folder and finish my coffee whilst this occurred because it felt unprofessional to just listen. I found my report on winter and wanted to kids to write a report on their winter whilst their away. So I read it. The class thought I had a good point in the end, but I think any adolescent brain would consider a philosophical view on the world with a passionate voice to be a ‘good point’. This type of style and view on things, appeared in a lot of their work shortly after. It was in a weaker form, but still it means they’re actually trying to say something with their writing.

The party talk started again, and then they all remembered that lesson I told them about when I met that girl at that party. ‘Oh yeah! So sir, did you ever talk to her again?’ Jess asked with so much excitement. The whole class stopped eager for my response. I was sat in my chair by this point, drawing what a thought looks like. I figured I’d separate actual work and conversations because they might work better. And they did. I rested the pencil down, and leaned back in my chair whilst placing interlocked hands behind my head. ‘Yeah. Yeah I did.’ I had this big smile on my face that the class made me aware of. ‘I will tickle the s**t out of you’ I whispered under my breath and took another big smile. ‘What was her name?’ Jess asked again. I didn’t really feel like talking about it, so I stood up and took a breath in. ‘Was her name? Was? She hasn’t died yet Jess. Semantics guys, it’s important.’ I was amused by their response and I began to rub out the board. ‘Oh come on sir, what’s’er name?’ Jake yelled just as I finished with the last corner. I turned around and threw the rubber on my desk. Even saying her name brung back dead nerves. I didn’t hate her, I could never hate her. To tell you the truth, I hate myself for letting things end that way. She wasn’t mean or nasty either, it’s just, well your find out I guess. I decided to just say her last name. ‘She’s a Miss.Maigne’ and instantly a flock of rhetorical questions spawned. ‘Isn’t that Miss.Maigne last name?’ that question killed me. ‘Guys! Guys, it’s probably not the same one okay’ I laughed through my breath. “Look the bells about to go, I want you to think abou- Lewis don’t throw that - about how I described things and talked about my holiday from school. Because Christmas is coming up, and I want a short essay from all of you about your break.’ I can still hear the grunts and sighs that was interrupted by the bell yelling.

The day passed pretty fast, I ate lunch with Marpert and marked more class work and before I knew it the bell for home time. A blink later I was alone packing up. I quickly looked around and I remember there being nothing to clear up but I could see two swans by a lake in the far distance in the nature reserve from the classroom. They were kind of exploring through the woods, I only saw them for a few seconds until the trees covered them up. I was putting my desk in my satchel when I heard ‘So I hear you’ve been talking about me’ and then a little giggle from the doorway. My stomach slid down my stomach and my face went really hot. I knew who was right behind me. I put my laptop into my bag, and put it on my shoulders. I turned around to face to the doorway and I remember the sun was shining through the corridor into the classroom and I could just see the silhouette. I smiled with my lips and put a hand up. ‘Is it hi or hey?’

Author's Note

I feel the chapter is lacking a lot of consistency, and goes from one subject to another in an unorganised way.

The explanation of why the report was read needs to be changed, as things don't 'add up'