The 2022 Neil McCorkindale Essay Competition

This essay writing competition attracted 14 entries from Perth High, Perth Grammar and Morrison’s Academy. The entrants and their teachers were welcomed to lunch on 26^th May when the winner, Jamie Hargreaves from Perth High School, was presented with the trophy. He read out his essay “Traces of a Man” and it is published below.

The judging panel were impressed with the standard of all the essays submitted and, having unanimously selected the winner, they also wished to commend the 3 runners-up  - Zhanti Leaver, Perth Grammar: Logan Sinclair, Perth High School and Hamish Allan, Morrisons. Their essays will be published in subsequent months.

All the entrants received a copy of the book Creativity Matters by Wendy H Jones from President Elect Anna.

Traces of a Man.

Jamie Hargreaves

For Dad

A faint whistle grows. The old-fashioned kettle. She starts to hoist herself up from the comfort of her chair as though the boiling water has called her to arms like a wartime corporal. Standing isn’t as easy as it used to be, we can thank time for that. The mantel next to her chair is lined with framed photos, standing to attention, of a life thoroughly lived. Her hand slips as she goes to balance her rise, swiping so unfortunately at the mantle. A singular framed photo is knocked and falls from its place – its glass shield cracking in the process. She regains her balance and mutters to herself one of those quirky old phrases full of curses, of which our grandparents have plenty. She notices the photo she’d knocked and reaches down to collect the fallen soldier. An action, again, now full of old new challenges. Peering through the shards, an image of a wife and her husband at a beach can be seen. It is of course her. She smiles faintly at it, in her mind at least this is just a mirror; still young and free. The ageing of the mind seems so separate from the body. Reality creeps in through the sharpness of the crack’s reflections.

Not a thought to dwell on.

She pulls the picture out of its defunct frame delicately and places it back on her mantle. With hesitation she turns the photo round to see the scribblings of a hand she would often hold. Sweetness immortalised in words. Her hand trembled as his words bound across her eyes, through her head and into her heart. There they settled. She tightened her hold on the thin piece of photograph paper, gripping to what it meant to her. Loosening the weight of her press when she noticed a crease forming. Perhaps it was more delicate than she expected, the photo of course. Her hand, now withered by the decades she outlived, moved swiftly to hold something in an attempt to steady the shivers of a cruel nostalgia. The absence of his arm to cling to however, seems crueller. A chair fills this void so kindly – cushioning her hand’s reaches for support. An arm of sorts I suppose, no connected mind with memories and experiences but an arm, nonetheless. Kindness does not require conscience. Holding herself in thought, she allows the swathes of memories to sweep her away. Closing her eyes and looking back.

The sun was warm on her skin, not yet loosened by time. And the beach’s familiar noise of sharp seagull howls was more comforting upon retread.

“Are you alright, deary?” His voice, his words, and that sweet old nickname they love to use. Deary this, deary that.

“Yes, yes I’m fine.” She replies – reading the script of her memory.

She looks up at him. If only he could stay like that, if only time had not made its cruel assault on his mind. Such a pretty man, with long curled hair and a uniqueness to his eye – one half of the iris coloured just a shade of blue lighter. If only he could stay like that.

He leans down to kiss his partner, quickly. It’s a funny thing, a kiss. To anyone not familiar with the human condition the idea of a kiss is absurd. It's nonsensical on a social level and dangerous on a bacterial one. A kiss however hides your face, and maybe that’s why we like them so much. We share them with the people we feel the closest to, who see through us the easiest. Perhaps a moment of blindness in a relationship full of exposure is exactly why it feels so special.

“Well come on then, we’ve much more to do. Get out of your head.” He said smoothly.

He’s right. So much more to do from this moment, so many more years. But she wants not to leave her own mind. She stops to consider that this memory now only exists for her. He breathes, he moves but he does not remember. People often say that memories are the beating heart of who we are, if true what does that say about him? Does his heartbeat no longer?

Not a thought to dwell on.

He turns from her and stumbles his way through the sand, leaving a track of displaced ground behind him. She focuses on the trail. Footprints in the sand can be traced at first but are not afforded the luxury of permanence. How fitting, she thinks. Is anything afforded that luxury? Perhaps that’s what makes such moments so inherently beautiful – their lack of permanence.

The view of the beach clears from her mind, his pretty face fades away. Very rarely did she find herself indulging in her past and for good reason. Stepping out of the shower when it’s cold is always harder than letting yourself stay in its warmth. It’s safe, it’s comforting and it’s a damn good camouflage for tears. The longer you dwell however the more your body says “C’mon, get a move on”. Your fingertips wrinkle. Why do they do that? There’s no evolutionary advantage to having wrinkled fingers when its wet – why do they do that? I’ve always subscribed to the belief it’s a sign. You sit around wallowing in the warmth of the well and the world beyond it leaves you behind. “Get a move on. You’re not wrinkled yet.” The world says. “Well if I must.” You reply.

The door clatters just behind her chair, positioned not to face it. We’re not expecting attackers. None we can stop at least.

“I heard a smash, are you alright?” Croaks the old voice she loves to hear. She turns to him, not for the first time I assure you. He notices the smashed frame on the side and moves to it. Reaching out to lift up a wounded memory. He squints at it. She realises what is happening.

Please. She thinks.

Please.

“Who’s that woman there?” he asks.

Her prayers were in vain.

“That’s me deary. Remember.” Her voice wavering.

Remember. Such a simple request. Not so easy now. It aims its scope at the memories it chooses. And fires. Is it random? I really hope so. Dementia has so many victims, all achieved only by attacking one. We all suffer so much and yet he who suffers the most, can’t even remember the attack.

He looks down at her, watching her sink into her chair.

“You?” He asks, puzzled.

She tilts her head at him, endearingly – how much harder must this be on him.

He can tell she’s upset, and he can tell someone should be there. Moving his hand towards her, resting it on top of hers. She wonders why he’s done this.

Kindness doesn’t have to be conscious. She smiles, for a short moment before glancing back at their mantel. All those memories lined up. Which one’s under its scope now, she thinks.

Not a thought to dwell on.

How cruel of it to make her think like this, as though thoughts are the enemy now. Not the fallout, nor a symptom of the harshness. It’s twisted her to fear the only thing it wishes to take from us, our thoughts.

Oh, how she misses the shower, looking down at her hands, wrinkled now. The world left her behind.

With only shards of her lover and, traces of a man.