The Outsider

This is a short story based on a true experience.

The mothers were outside the village school, gossiping in groups, whilst their children stood around, bored, tired and hungry, evidently used to this routine once school was over for the day.

 

They didn't immediately acknowledge the woman who approached them, carrying an old, plastic tray with something on it.  She was evidently used to their offhandedness, and waited a few seconds before interrupting the group.  If the woman felt hurt, she did a good job of hiding it.  In the past, she had felt real pain at their rejection of her.  Today, though, instead, she felt glad, joyful, and almost euphoric at their implied insult; today she would take her revenge.  Up until this very moment an alarming feeling of guilt had convinced her that she would never dare to go through with it, but the present behaviour of these women alleviated that and she knew now that she was really going to enjoy herself! 

 

On the surface, not much was different; she had pasted her smile in place, the one that begged the women in the group to like her, or at least to accept her.  It had never worked in the past, but today she interrupted their inane chat quite assertively and they had to acknowledge her.

 

"I know we haven't gotten to know each other very well during my 15 years in your country," she began, thinking to herself, " despite the fact that I've had my three children all go through this school and none of you were ever slow to ask me when you needed a child to be picked up, dropped off, minded for an afternoon or needed a website or some school work translated into English" 

 

Having left her home town in her twenties, she had taken Margaret Thatcher's advice to "get on your bike and go to where the work is" and ever since had lived among other commuters. She'd made this move for the quality of life, liking the idea that her children would grow up in a safe environment.  Life in a sleepy French village had seemed idyllic then, but she had never dreamed that places existed where you had to be at least three generations in the same village to be accepted on any level other than as a useful outsider.  Their insularity had proved impossible to crack.  Her sad efforts to be accepted had always made her say yes to whatever was requested of her.  She was the longest serving mother to help out at the weekly school swimming classes.   She knew that her brave attempts at speaking their language had punctuated their days with much cruel humour, always behind her back, never to her face.  To her, these women were like tadpoles living in a puddle without ever noticing the garden pond alongside.  At the same time, she couldn't help envying their sense of belonging, their security in knowing their place within the group.

 

As she approached the group, a football crashed against the wire fence of the school playground, startling her and almost making her drop the tray.  She offered the slices of fruit cake around the puzzled mothers who although reluctant to stop gossiping could never bring themselves to refuse something for nothing. 

 

The woman continued, "This is a speciality of my country, we normally eat this at Christmas time and it is to say goodbye to you all, since tomorrow I'll be moving away."  In fact, this was a lie �" her bags were packed and she intended to leave immediately.

 

Even as they ate, they ignored her, and spoke among themselves, their mouths full of half chewed Christmas cake.  The sight made her feel slightly nauseous.  There was plenty to go round, and some of the women called over their friends from other groups of gossiping masses, some of them taking two or three slices, to her delight.

 

She'd found the cake in the kitchen cupboard from last Christmas whilst clearing out.  The same day, one of the group had snubbed her at the school gate.  That was when she'd begun to hatch her plan of a little farewell gift.  First she'd pierced holes in the cake, then she'd poured her own special mixture over it, left it for a few days, cut it and spread it thickly with butter to hide the staleness.

 

Some of the cars on the car park were departing and the exhaust fumes helped to disguise the unusual flavour.

 

As she walked back to her car for the last time she wondered how long it would take for the first symptoms to show.  She'd deliberately chosen a slow acting weed killer; she smiled to herself at the joke.  Obviously, she would leave no forwarding address.

Author's Note

Do you think this is an interesting story as it stands, or does it need more "meat on the bones". I'm never sure how much "back story" is absolutely necessary.

Reviews

[Solitude]

This is based on a true experience, but don't worry, I didn't actually poison anybody, though I might have been tempted!