We’re pleased to announce the winner of the April WWWC: Valerie Volk. Fitting indeed that Valerie’s third WWWC win matches up so perfectly with the prompt ‘three generations’.

Valerie’s winning piece ‘Patterns’ is an examination of mother-daughter relationships and the cycles of behaviour we often fall into. Read her winning piece below.

Patterns

The others are standing awkwardly, shuffling their feet in the unusual heat of this autumn afternoon. Somehow you don’t want funerals to be on sunny afternoons. Seems inappropriate. The skies should be grey, the atmosphere threatening, sombre. It’s almost an insult to the occasion, to be fanning ourselves and wishing we were at the beach.

Or anywhere else, for that matter. I don’t want to be here, and neither do the others, I suspect. Why do we put ourselves through family funerals? ‘Of course you’ll come!’ My mother’s voice had been crisp, and I recognised the tone. It was her there’ll be no arguments over this, my girl voice. I was used to it. We all were.

‘And, Jenny, you’ll wear something appropriate. Not jeans with the knees out and a cut-off top. Proper clothes. Something your grandmother would have approved of.’

That had taken some doing. Short of rifling through the old girl’s wardrobe I really couldn’t think of anything of mine she wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow over. Guess wherever she is now, she isn’t raising her eyebrows anymore. Damn, that sounds as if I didn’t like her, but I did. She had a bit of a twinkle in her eye, and I sometimes thought she disapproved more of my mum than of me. I reckon she’d had a bit of fun in her day.

For a moment, I had a pang of something. What? Grief? No, that was too strong. Just a regret that she wasn’t round anymore. It was fun to go to the farm when I was little. There was a game we used to have. I’d be a cat, and crawl into her room miaowing, and she’d play along, patting my head and taking me to the big old kitchen for a saucer of milk. When Mum came in there’d be the familiar scowl on her face. ‘Really Mother, you shouldn’t encourage the child!’

Gran was probably the only one who’d understood how it broke me up when Dad left. There’d been too many changes to cope with, and hers was the only place where I felt that the world was secure. Especially when Mum went off to the city to find us somewhere new to live and to start her new job, and I was left with Gran for what seemed like forever. Not that I minded. In fact I look back on that time – even though it was only a few months – as one of the happiest times of my life. Gran loved me, and when I cuddled up to her I felt safe.

Yes, I’ll miss the old girl. More, I’m pretty sure, than anyone else standing here today. Little country churchyards aren’t really their style. I was wondering if Dad might have turned up, because they used to get on so well. But he probably doesn’t even know. It was all pretty quick at the end. She would have been glad of that. ‘No long illnesses for me,’ she told me once. ‘I’d rather wear out than rust out.’ That was Gran, always a doer. I guess Mum inherited that from her. Wonder if she’s thinking about that.

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Jenny looks over at me, then looks away. We’re not standing together; she’s on the other side of the grave. But that’s typical. We’ve never stood together. I think she blames me for the way her father left. Still, after all these years. But then so did my mother. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me when I came to tell her that Ian was leaving me. Just a cool appraisal. ‘You’re not surprised, are you Ros?’ That hurt.

What would have surprised me would have been if she’d thrown her arms around me in sympathy, and poured out a bit of maternal comfort. I think that would have broken me up. It was probably better that she didn’t. This way it left me free to hang on to the icy calm I’ve always been known for.

Well, today’s a day that needs it anyway. I don’t want to investigate how I feel and certainly not in front of the group here. All of those old biddys are friends of Mum’s, and it surprised me that so many of them turned up. Lots of tentative pats on my shoulder. ‘We’ll miss her, Ros,’ seemed to be the pattern of the day. They made no attempts at sympathetic hugs, thank goodness. I guess Mum had told them how I hated to be touched. I do sometimes wonder why that’s so difficult for me, but I tend to flinch when people try to get affectionate. Perhaps that explains why Ian left. Maybe that’s what Mum meant.

It would have been unfair. After all, I can’t remember her ever showing me much affection. A kiss on the cheek for goodnight at best, but even that I felt she had to steel herself for. Steel. Yes, that’s a good word for it. I always felt she had to psych herself up for any real contact with me. No wonder I held back from her. Too late now to get upset about it. I guess I’d always hoped that one day we might manage a real conversation. Even, heaven help us, a genuine hug.

Jenny’s the same. She really doesn’t like me very much, and I don’t blame her. I’m not the sort of person that others warm to, even my own daughter. It doesn’t mean I don’t love her, just because I don’t do all that touchy-feely stuff. I used to watch other mothers cuddling their babies and wonder why they did it. Surely there are other ways of showing people you love them.

I don’t know how Mum would have reacted if I’d come and put my arms around her. One of the many things I’ll never find out now. Even when she was dying, I really had trouble touching her.

But I’m sorry now I didn’t try more. Yet another regret.

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Dear Ros,

You’ll be surprised to get a letter from your mother and I’m not at all sure how you’ll react. This is probably not a good idea, and perhaps once I’ve written it I’ll turn coward and tear it up. But then you’ll never know, and perhaps there are things that should be said, even from the grave.

I hope you read it. If you’re getting it, it means I’ve gone, and I wonder what your memories of me will be like. They won’t be warm and fuzzy, that I know. I suspect you’ll recall too many times where I failed you, and when the lurking hostility and resentment boiled over. It’s probably good that we haven’t seen much of each other in recent years. A week or two – that’s all we could manage before tensions came to the surface. No, better that we kept our distance.

That’s what it’s always been – distance. And I’m sorry. I don’t understand it, and God knows I’ve tried over the years. Was it because you were such a difficult birth? Even then you struggled, as if you didn’t want to be born. In my arms you would stiffen and cry, and only seemed happy when your aunt held you. She could cuddle and hug you in a way that I never could. With me you’d pull away. Why? Or was it – and only now can I look at this clearly – was it that you could feel my own holding back? Now I can understand, and regret so much.

Even more because I can see how like me you are. Did I do this to you? I’m sorry. Worse still, because you are the same with Jenny, whom we both love so much. But I can relax and be myself with Jenny in a way I never could with you, and I suspect you resent that even more. Don’t. Be glad that it’s possible to be different, even though I couldn’t be like that with you.

But it’s a pattern, and it has to be broken. Three generations of us. The way I’ve been with you. The way you are with Jenny. And so it will go on, unless we break the mould and learn how to show love openly. Because I do love you very much, just as you love your daughter. It’s sad that we run the risk of another generation following in our footsteps.

That’s why I’ve written you this letter, and I want you to read it with Jenny, and talk about what we have done. Perhaps between us we can free her to live her life better than we have managed. I’m not going to read what I have written, or I may retreat and put the letter in the bin, instead of the envelope with your name on it, and the message. ‘For Ros, with my love.’

Mum

Valerie Volk is an award-winning Adelaide writer of poetry, verse novels, short stories and longer fiction. She is fascinated by the perennial question ‘What if …?’ and is a self-confessed voyeur of other people’s lives. Family history has been the inspiration for several of her fictional novels. Valerie loves all music – especially classical, opera and jazz – travel and cats, not necessarily in that order, but she loves writing most of all. Her latest novel is Finding Emma.