Short Stories 1st Place: Hands by Joy Clews
‘You can tell a lot from a man’s hands,’ Angela’s mother used to say. ‘They give away all sorts of clues about him – secrets he would never tell you.’
Angela looked across the green baize of the bridge table to the hands of the stranger sitting opposite her. They shielded his playing cards from the view of others as he busily sorted them into suits. Although she did not share her mother’s faith in the power of a pair of hands to reveal the inner depths of a man, she noticed the detail of those opposite her. The skin was lightly weathered and the agile fingers were topped with short, clean nails. They were capable hands; looked after but not pampered.
‘Is this the first time you and Patrick have been partners?’ another bridge player asked, interrupting her thoughts.
‘That’s right,’ Angela replied.
‘It’s going pretty well considering, don’t you think Angela?’ Patrick said.
Angela nodded in agreement.
At the end of the evening he asked if she would be his partner in a competition later that week. An uninvited warmth rose from her neck to her face as she accepted his invitation.
Angela chided herself for her uncharacteristic indecision about what to wear for an evening of bridge. Her eyes slid over the inconspicuous row of clothes hanging in her wardrobe, pausing just once when they reached a cornflower blue jumper. She held the vivid colour to her chest and glanced in the mirror.
When she arrived at the club Patrick waved and walked over to her.
‘What a beautiful colour,’ he said. ‘You look lovely.’
She mumbled her thanks, diverting her eyes to her handbag in a prolonged search for a pen. He organised the equipment on the table, opening boxes and shuffling packs of playing cards, confident and in control. Halfway through the evening he brought her a coffee, placing it carefully to the side of the table – the cup almost full, none in the saucer – and offered her a biscuit from a loaded plate. Angela savoured the sweetness of melted chocolate on her tongue.
They played again the following week. The winter weather had worsened and snow threatened. He offered to drive Angela to the club. She accepted.
They arrived to the welcoming heat of radiators turned up to their highest setting. Angela stretched appreciative fingers over their warmth. Players rubbed their hands together, remarking on the cold as they found vacant seats and set to work shuffling cards.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have some hush, please.’ The club secretary rose to his feet. ‘Before we start tonight’s game, I have the winners of Tuesday’s competition. I’m delighted to announce that the new partnership of Angela and Patrick – ’
The whoop from her partner prevented Angela from hearing the rest.
‘This warrants a celebratory drink when we’ve finished,’ he said as their grins of shared success met across the table.
Later that evening, as the room temperature increased, he pushed up the sleeves of his jumper to just below his elbows. She saw it immediately, where his left thumb joined the wrist. The scar was raised, around one and a half inches long, jagged like a row of teeth biting into the soft flesh around them. Angela’s breath wedged in her throat, just as it had done one spring day more than sixty years ago.
It had been a warm afternoon. Angela and her two friends were enjoying the warmth of the sun on their pale skin as they sat on the riverbank chatting and laughing, shrugging off the winter months along with their cardigans. The remnants of the picnic lay around them on a rug, inviting languorous nibbling as the day progressed. This spot was a favourite of theirs because of its seclusion; there was just an occasional heron or kingfisher eavesdropping on their innocence.
‘Did you hear something?’ Joan sat up and looked towards the nearby copse. ‘A rustling sound?’
‘Probably a rabbit scampering through the undergrowth,’ Nancy responded as she yawned and stretched her arms nonchalantly.
The girls resumed their conversation about their favourite pop music. It was Joan who first noticed they were no longer alone. Angela saw her staring towards the trees.
‘Joan?’ She followed her friend’s gaze and felt all of her fifteen years of life catch in her throat as her breathing faltered. There were five youths standing at the edge of the woodland, eyes bleary from drink, mouths loose and sneering.
‘Enjoying yourselves, girls?’ The one in the middle swaggered over and stood just in front of them swigging noisy gulps from his beer bottle. The others followed, faces distorted in mirthless laughter.
Joan scrambled to her feet.
‘You should go home and sober up.’ Her voice was strong, belying any fear.
‘Home? I don’t think so. Especially now we’ve found you, eh boys?’
The leader turned to the others who were grouped close behind him. Angela’s heart was beating fast and hard. When she moved to stand up a grimy boot pushed down hard on her chest. The crush of his body upon hers caused her to gasp. She tried to free her arms but his bulk was too great and his elbows pinned them to her sides. The rancid smell of beer closed in on her face. Her screams briefly filled the still air before a heavy hand clamped her mouth. She bit hard into the flesh. He cursed, grimacing as he raised his forearm away from her. Angela screwed her eyes shut as his fist slammed into her face.
‘It’s your bid, Angela.’ His words drifted towards her across the respectability of the bridge table. She looked at his face. He was smiling, encouraging her to continue the game. She carried on as though her world was unaltered.
When they left the club the snow clouds had passed and the air was razor cold. Ice shimmered on the tarmac.
‘You stay by the door while I fetch the car.’ He walked confidently on the slippery surface.
When she climbed in, warm air was already beginning to circulate in the footwell. He drove carefully, in reverence to the conditions, and talked about the evening’s games. Angela lifted the crucifix from her neck and twirled it around her fingers when they passed the bleak concrete block of the police station.
They were soon sitting in the Fox and Hounds, he with a pint of shandy, she with a small glass of dry white wine. A Christmas tree stood in the corner opposite them, festooned with twinkling lights and mirrored baubles. Angela noticed the fairy perched on top of the tree, smiling down, bestowing good wishes on her with a pipe cleaner wand.
‘Will you be spending Christmas at home?’ she asked Patrick.
‘No, I’m off to my son’s house in Somerset. The whole family will be there.’ He took a photograph of smiling faces from his wallet to provide validity. ‘What are your plans?’
‘I’ll be going to a neighbour’s for lunch on Christmas day.’
‘Oh,’ he said, turning his attention to the table. Angela watched as he ran a finger around the rim of his glass.
‘Have you always lived locally?’ she asked him.
‘Goodness, no,’ he laughed, looking up at her. ‘I’m a northern lad. I lived in Yorkshire until my thirties and then moved with my work. I still love Yorkshire, but don’t get back as often as I’d like to. Do I detect a little northerness in your accent?’
‘Maybe. I grew up in Lancashire, close to the Yorkshire border. We moved away when I was fifteen.’
‘That’s the age of my grand-daughter. She’s lovely but changing so quickly – no longer looks like a child, although she’ll always be one in my eyes.’
Angela watched and listened as he talked. Such pride. Such love. But now was not the right time. She would wait, as she had done for the last sixty years.
In January a newcomer, Maureen, arrived at the bridge club. Part way through the evening Angela heard her shrill chatter as she approached their table.
‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars,’ she laughed, drawing up her chair. Angela’s eyes followed the point of Maureen’s scarlet finger nail. ‘It’s a nasty scar you’ve got there. I know all about these things from my nursing days. A bite, I’d say. Did a dog turn on you?’
Patrick pulled his hand away from her scrutiny. ‘It happened a long time ago. It’s nothing.’
His words throbbed inside Angela’s head. It’s nothing. Her memories hovered in the space between them.
‘It’s my deal,’ she said, her voice low and steady as she picked up her cards.
The winter weeks passed by. They played bridge. They went to the theatre. They walked in the countryside.
‘I think he’s falling for you,’ Maureen whispered. Angela knew this was true. She waited to play her hand. She waited until April when the warmer air loosened her fingers. His hands had opened doors for her, poured drinks, unblocked gutters. Such courteous, helpful hands.
They stood together in her garden, looking up through the tree’s limp branches. The unusually harsh weather had stripped away all promise of green shoots.
‘I doubt that it will recover,’ he said. ‘Good for fire wood though. I could take it down for you if you’d like me to.’
He manoeuvred a long ladder up the drive and positioned it against the tree trunk while Angela freed the chainsaw from a mesh of cobwebs at the back of the shed.
‘I’ll do it in stages,’ he explained, pouring a mixture of petrol and oil into the small fuel tank. ‘I’ll trim off the outlying branches first, then I’ll fell it.’
Angela nodded as she looked at the tool’s vicious teeth lined up in a jagged row. She cleared the patio of its containers then steadied the ladder as he had shown her, one hand on each side and a foot on the bottom rung. His feet were just above her head when he started to make the cuts. The lower branches dropped to the ground easily and lightly.
‘Not much more,’ he said. ‘I’ll just cut these few remaining branches then I’ll sort out the trunk.’
Up he climbed, one hand steadying his progress on the ladder, the other holding the chainsaw. Such dexterous hands. Such soiled hands.
Angela loosened her grip on the shiny metal and stepped aside. The ladder trembled. As it tipped away from the tree he cried out. Angela watched as he tried to maintain his balance. She watched as the tangle of limbs and chainsaw crashed to the ground.
It was a terrible accident, the bridge players agreed when the club secretary announced the sad news. They shook their heads at the thought of it happening to such a lovely man. Angela’s expression remained sombre as she picked up the cards dealt to her and focussed on her new hand.
