A Bunch of Fives - Stories by James Roderick Burns (58)

Under the Parasol

UNDER THE PARASOL

SHE WOULD MAINTAIN, to the end of her days, that it wasn’t on purpose.

Between pier and pleasure boat was a small gap. No more than two feet, three at most, and marked by a strip of hammered-tin. Somehow, as she stepped across, the toe of her Sunday boots caught the edge and down she went, parasol arrowing into the lake behind her.

For a moment, nothing – an envelope of bubbles, mild blue water taking the place of sky. Then she opened her eyes.

Though vision was wobbly – like the old glass porthole in the steelworks-office she cleaned, six nights a week – and stung with an onion’s savour, it didn’t hurt; not really. She laughed. A wild rush erupted, her mouth filling with minerals.

She clapped it shut.

Skirts ballooned under her palm, the parasol tugging, insistent as a fish on the line. Water swelled, receded, turning the spindle of her body on its axis. She looked up, straining for the light; found small, mobile ovals, a great wedge of dark. A smaller wedge alongside waved its insect legs.

How peculiar!

Yet how peaceful.

Her knees, she realised, were supported on a cushion of water; back braced by the currents; feet slippered in sand. The knots of her knuckles – no matter the oil she’d rubbed in – were buttery with mermen’s kisses. All told, it was rather pleasant.

Then three great splashes – insistent as her lost husband, in dreams – brought her back from the blue. Up, away, yanked hard by the arm, duty calling in small children’s voices.

Out, slippery as a catch, coughing and wriggling on the dock.

The parasol, too, was a sorry sight.

Occasionally, in hard times, she’d take it out, close her eyes and smell the lake – find a measure of peace.

First published in Flash Flood Journal (June 2024)

Next: The Man in Grey Flannel