Mrs Shaw and The Aid

A lady has come to help Mrs Shaw, a war widow. The Aid is supposed to listen, to be supportive, to provide "A sensible resolution for the condition of the Client, assessing his/her mental wellness."

23/11/14

“Tell me, Mrs Shaw,” she said, softly, “what was life like afterwards?”

She poised her pen above her flimsy notepad; ready for the tale to come. Mrs Shaw stroked the armrest of the cotton chair. Her wrinkled hands were a subtle raw pink in the palms.

Mrs Shaw then drew a breath through chapped lips and spoke, “W-well...I suppose one could say it was...difficult-actually, no, my dear, ‘difficult’ does not stretch enough to have the grief of our time wedged into it. I do not know precisely how to explain it.”

Mrs Shaw had a gentle voice, and she tended to pause for a little between sentences, as though checking she was still being listened to. There had to be a smooth approach to such a touchy subject, Lucy thought. Shifting her body to one side, Lucy put her pen and notepad down and clasped her hands together on her lap. Her palms were clammy.

“O.K, Ma’am, I think I understand what you mean,” Lucy began, “-but it’s important to confront these issues if we are to make any progress. O.K?”

A few seconds of processing, then Mrs Shaw gave a small nod and smile to match. Lucy returned the smile, though nervously, at first, then as though humoured by an inside joke of her own.

With one breathy laugh, she continued, “And this is my first time doing something like this-for real, with an actual real-life person.”

Lucy paused to give her words a moment to be registered by the lady with the drawn face before her. Mrs Shaw nodded again.

A huff from Lucy, and then, “So I think we could both be beneficial to one another at the present moment. Do you agree, Mrs Shaw?” Lucy’s voice had morphed into a near whisper, her tone pleading. 

The old lady caressed the folded layers of her right cheek with her hand.

“Yes, dear. I understand, utterly.”

Mrs Shaw’s chapped lips stiffly stretched into an endearing smile; she was looking directly into her Aid’s eyes. 

Lucy’s chest rose and her lungs expelled a dense sigh. “Thank you so much, Mrs Shaw. And as your Aid, I will do whatever I can to help.” Lucy said, “So, I think we should start with whatever you wish and with whichever time you wish.”

Lucy’s smile was no longer a nervous one. Mrs Shaw nodded again.

“Of course.” Mrs Shaw said, then raised two fingers from where they were on the armrest: she enunciated her next words with a slight bob up and down of her index and middle finger.

“Dill left me,” she whispered, “he had a choice, you know. Most did. But...he scampered like the coward he was.”

Mrs Shaw had her eyelids shut now, but her eyes glossed from side to side beneath them. 

She continued, “I didn’t know what to do-you have to know what. M-my innocence had been

lost; everyone’s was.”

She took a rasping breath in, interrupted by a hiccup, “We had lost everything: food at our beck and call; freedom to go out when we pleased; and our innocence. Our innocence was lost, so back-handedly shoved from whichever crevice of our being it took refuge in. All was lost.”

The Aid had grabbed her notepad and pen and was hurriedly scrawling notes of all that had been said. Lucy bit a part of her lip as she was writing in her desperation. Mrs Shaw rested against the backrest and angled her head up towards the ceiling adorned with damp spots and patches.

Lucy had finally finished writing, looked up at her client, and said, “Go on, Mrs Shaw, you’re doing well. Your Aid is here to help; to make things better.”

Mrs Shaw’s eyelids snapped open and she stared at her Aid, eyes watery.

A heart-clenching wail (but a little like the bleat of a goat, Lucy noted) from Mrs Shaw was followed by, “But you do not understand. You do not!” She rasped a heavy breath in, “I loved him-I loved my husband. But the fool went to the battleground and fought and feared and cried and died. Yet what man remembers him for what was beyond the few bits of coloured fabric shoved upon him?!”

Mrs Shaw began shifting from place to place in her chair.

“They stuffed him in that uniform as though he were a cow, promised pastures of victory, but deceived and then ‘rewarded’ for his unspoken and unheard of war efforts by preparation for their own official SlaughterHouse.”

Mrs Shaw allowed the salty tears to slip into her open mouth. Lucy just watched,

expressionless.

“And now I am alone. And Dill is gone. And nobody will ever know what he was really like. Nobody. For, to them, he was a Nobody from beginning to end!”

Mrs Shaw was panting. Mrs Shaw had finished. Her navy blue blouse had a large, soiled dark area on it now. The Aid remained expressionless, but she had managed to write it all down, she thought, thankfully. -Further sessions?- The Aid wrote in her flimsy notepad.

The Aid cleared her throat, then spoke, “So, Mrs Shaw, I recommend Typnol or Dopsilyn. Either should do the trick.”

The silence was paired with Mrs Shaw’s muffled jagged breaths.

Author's Note

I'm currently working to improve my dialogue, so feedback on the dialogue flow, the layout of the speech (I'm a bit rough with my speech layout, and unsure of speech layout in general), and also the actual plot of this chapter would be very much appreciated.

Also, please do feel free to suggest anything you would've done differently with this chapter, and any corrections to you'd suggest I make and PLEASE TELL ME IF THE MESSAGE I'M TRYING TO SUBTLY HINT AT IS CLEAR ENOUGH. Thanks!

Reviews

[Derek29]

This is fairly well written hyper-drama, I'd describe it. Clearly adequate. It seems very theatrical, at certain moments.
Was this designed for a movie? What a unique play-style layout.
Also, to acknowledge: Some of the language is slightly over-written, however, there seems, very sufficient potential, in terms of well craftsmanship.
All and all, I'd say this is very above average, for a good short story.
Thank you.