The Visitor

• Ayesha Gough, Grade 11, Lindisfarne Anglican School
• Short Story
• 2011

Excellence Award in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

As the balmy day rapidly dissolved into a half-hearted afternoon, and the sun’s warm rays settled on the dark green hedges, the visitor ambled along the path. Playing children stopped and stared at him, their laughter caught in midair. The unseen birds screeched as their trees creaked and swayed. Dogs barked at shadows.
The visitor breathed deeply and felt the syrupy air fill his weak lungs. Limping, he bent down and rubbed a familiar sharp pain in his left knee. Stepping over the gutter and onto the road, he sensed the wind blow his wispy hair, tickling his scalp.
The children, happy with their new game, concealed themselves and watched the visitor settle into the seat. Unaware that he could see them, they observed his tattered, uneven clothes and whispered about his frown.
The visitor crossed his legs and uncrossed them. The seat was hard and stubborn, with flecks of green paint peeling at its worn patches. Annoyed that he was being watched, he focused on the house across the road.

As the sun slipped beneath the distant horizon, and the bite of evening air attacked bare skin, the visitor huddled against the seat. Children, fearful of yelling parents, withdrew into their warm houses. Birds, silent with the gloom, hid in their motionless trees. Dogs barked at the shadow that is night.
The visitor watched lights appear at the house’s windows and strained to see movement beyond the curtains. Uneasy, he pressed his hands against his stomach and tried to extinguish an unfamiliar sensation of butterflies. Closing his eyes, he remembered the last time he was here.
The children, unhappy with dinner, picked at their food and watched their parents talk. Aware that they could be seen, the children observed how their mother continually pushed at a piece of her auburn hair.
The visitor stretched his cold hands and folded them. The street was hushed, with secure cars waiting patiently at clean gutters. Happy, he concentrated on a memory of her auburn hair.

As the clocks ticked, and the appliances whirred, the visitor built up his courage. Younger children wandered to bed. Night birds, aware of their presence, frightened smaller animals. Dogs gave up on barking.
The visitor placed a foot on the grass of the house’s garden and put his hands in his pockets. Confident, he practised his lines and imagined her reaction. Hobbling up the steps and onto the veranda, he touched the doorbell.
The children, tired with persistent begging, covered their bodies with the soft sheets and listened to their mother’s voice. They had heard this story before.
The visitor watched the door open. The figure fit his memories. He sighed. Like a father, he thought.

As the darkness rolled on, and the stars hid behind clouds, the visitor ambled along the path.
It was not her.