The photograph by Louella Lester was the main prompt for the competition Find out more details about the prompt and Meg’s general comments here. Meg’s comments about Philippa’s piece are at the end of the story.
Philippa Bowe
The House that Harold Built
Harold returned from the war with a star-shaped medal and only one eye. The house sighed with pleasure when he opened the door. But the next morning half the façade had disappeared beneath an army of ivy. Harold chopped and hacked but every morning it was back, greying boards shuttered in green.
Harold had built the house one board at a time. Built it from lumberyard offcuts and factory floor nails, stubborn determination and sheer love of it. Didn’t stop till it reached four floors. Plenty of room for kids, eh? brother Frank ribbed him. Harold knew there would never be kids, the right girl, for him. His nine younger siblings had produced enough to keep the world turning, he reckoned.
Harold made the house with lots of windows to let in the light and a big door to let in the nieces and nephews. Little Peggy was his favourite. She curled at his feet reading stories of odd creatures, a magical alternate universe. They made him chuckle and crept into his dreams at night. Peggy was the one he missed most when he left for the trenches.
Harold had left more than his eye in the Marne. The children’s laughter and shrieks set off his gloom and he banished them, even Peggy. He sat alone with the lamplight dimmed, letting the shadows in. Corners of the house crumbled with a whisper. He paid nephew Tommy to bring him his groceries. Tommy complained to his mum about the clanking weight of all the bottles of whisky.
Harold found he preferred the company of ghosts, their voices less strident than the living. He wanted to hear Jake cracking jokes, Jonno telling him about the riverbanks of his youth. Even Sergeant Major Harrington roaring at them. But most of all Albert. He listened to all their voices, aching for Albert, as the house creaked and groaned. He watched the fireflies dancing and glittering and didn’t feel the tears slide from his one eye into the empty glass.
Harold was still sitting when Peggy found him, glass in hand, single eye closed for good. The next day the house collapsed into a jagged-edged pile. After the funeral Peggy sat in the ruins reading her stories, waiting for dusk. When the fireflies came she sighed with relief. As they blazed and flittered over the pile, Harold’s chuckle rose off the pages of her book.
Meg’s Comments
In “The House that Harold Built” present and past merge as we’re thrust into a tragic story of a war veteran and shown is deepest loves and ruined dreams. The effect is surprisingly novelistic. Hard to accomplish with such a small word count.
Philippa Bowe is a flash fiction writer, poet and translator. Her work has been published online and in print, including by Ghost City Press, Reflex Fiction, Bath Flash Fiction and Spark2Flame. She is writing a flash novella, lives on a southern French hill and has become addicted to big vistas.
