Neil had always hated family occasions – a room full of random people who wouldn’t be seen dead together if they weren’t related, talking at the tops of their voices, bragging about their houses, their jobs and their children, not bothering to listen to a word anyone else was saying – and this gathering was no different.
He slipped into Auntie’s May’s over-stuffed living room, slid past cousin Bernard pontificating about his new car to Neil’s brother David whose attention was on his I-phone, past his three nieces giggling about boys, carefully avoided the table covered with glasses and bottles where Uncle Bill and Uncle Jim were pretending to be Tom Cruise in Cocktail, and finally escaped into the conservatory.
Nobody had noticed his progress; no-one had collared him to tell him how well their life was going. The smokers were gathered in the garden, lurking by the French doors, their faces obscured by clouds of smoke. Neil decided not to endure the cigarette stench and sat down in an uncomfortable garden chair next to a large dusty plant with mucky yellow leaves in an ugly pot the size of a barrel. The soil was bone dry.
The chair creaked as Neil shifted, trying to get comfortable. He wondered what Grandad Harold would’ve made of his wake. Neil was pretty sure that Grandad would’ve liked everyone to be talking about him for a change, but so far he hadn’t heard one word about Harold, not even from Grandma Flo. She was having a great time, knocking back the gin and regaling Neil’s dad and his sister Muriel with stories of her exploits during the war. Dad looked horrified and Auntie Muriel had turned white.
Neil smiled. Grandma Flo was always good value when she’d had a few. Granddad had been a quiet man, but then he’d had to be! He and Neil used to sit in a corner at family get-togethers and talk about everything from fishing to politics via reality TV (Grandad was against it) and sport. Neil could hear that slow gravelly voice – “bunch of over-priced prima donnas poncing about”. Was that the politicians or the footballers?
A wave of noise passed through the conservatory as a small herd of children stampeded out into the garden, followed by Auntie May yelling at them to stay out of the flower beds. None of them spoke to Neil. He stood up, passed silently through the living room and left by the front door.
Neil missed Grandad – the only member of his family that he could talk to.
My thinking for this piece was to pick an occasion where there was a gathering of people to ignore the invisible person, Neil. I chose a family occasion because they’re always awkward and I chose a funeral because I’ve been to a lot of them over the last 2 years. I deliberately tracked Neil through the people who were ignoring him. If I’d been writing a proper story, I would have put in conversation and a lot more detail, but the tracking device served to give an overview of Neil’s family. When I got him to the conservatory, I thought hmm, if the deceased were also an invisible person that would make it more poignant and give Neil a reason to be the only genuine mourner there, grieving for the one family member who actually saw him and understood.
Although that’s probably a bit harsh on the others who, I’m sure, were also missing Harold, in their own ways.
He slipped into Auntie’s May’s over-stuffed living room, slid past cousin Bernard pontificating about his new car to Neil’s brother David whose attention was on his I-phone, past his three nieces giggling about boys, carefully avoided the table covered with glasses and bottles where Uncle Bill and Uncle Jim were pretending to be Tom Cruise in Cocktail, and finally escaped into the conservatory.
Nobody had noticed his progress; no-one had collared him to tell him how well their life was going. The smokers were gathered in the garden, lurking by the French doors, their faces obscured by clouds of smoke. Neil decided not to endure the cigarette stench and sat down in an uncomfortable garden chair next to a large dusty plant with mucky yellow leaves in an ugly pot the size of a barrel. The soil was bone dry.
The chair creaked as Neil shifted, trying to get comfortable. He wondered what Grandad Harold would’ve made of his wake. Neil was pretty sure that Grandad would’ve liked everyone to be talking about him for a change, but so far he hadn’t heard one word about Harold, not even from Grandma Flo. She was having a great time, knocking back the gin and regaling Neil’s dad and his sister Muriel with stories of her exploits during the war. Dad looked horrified and Auntie Muriel had turned white.
Neil smiled. Grandma Flo was always good value when she’d had a few. Granddad had been a quiet man, but then he’d had to be! He and Neil used to sit in a corner at family get-togethers and talk about everything from fishing to politics via reality TV (Grandad was against it) and sport. Neil could hear that slow gravelly voice – “bunch of over-priced prima donnas poncing about”. Was that the politicians or the footballers?
A wave of noise passed through the conservatory as a small herd of children stampeded out into the garden, followed by Auntie May yelling at them to stay out of the flower beds. None of them spoke to Neil. He stood up, passed silently through the living room and left by the front door.
Neil missed Grandad – the only member of his family that he could talk to.
My thinking for this piece was to pick an occasion where there was a gathering of people to ignore the invisible person, Neil. I chose a family occasion because they’re always awkward and I chose a funeral because I’ve been to a lot of them over the last 2 years. I deliberately tracked Neil through the people who were ignoring him. If I’d been writing a proper story, I would have put in conversation and a lot more detail, but the tracking device served to give an overview of Neil’s family. When I got him to the conservatory, I thought hmm, if the deceased were also an invisible person that would make it more poignant and give Neil a reason to be the only genuine mourner there, grieving for the one family member who actually saw him and understood.
Although that’s probably a bit harsh on the others who, I’m sure, were also missing Harold, in their own ways.