clairedavieswriter

Longlisted for Fiction Factory Short Story Competition 2025

I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when I turned into Mount Pleasant that day. Rather, I was just thinking for the umpteenth time that whoever named it must have had a droll sense of humour. Either that or, like me, the place gave them the creeps, and it was their way of making it seem more… pleasant.  It hadn’t worked for Tom, who left home at 18 to avoid moving there. Somehow, that decision had opened a rift between us that we were both too stubborn to mend.

The house – I could not call it home – squatted at the far end of the road, hemmed in by dense yew trees that stole the sun and clawed the leaded windows on windy nights. It was a dead-end in more ways than one, since everyone seemed to die there. My husband. His parents, who had owned it before him. Even my dog. I wouldn’t admit it in social company, but with the painful exception of Tom, it was Jasper I missed the most. The house had never felt so empty as it did when I returned without him from the vet. I missed the welcoming click of his claws on the floorboards when I heaved open the front door, the soothing sound of his breath at my feet when I sat at my desk, the hoarse scrape of metal against the flagstones when his nose chased the last of the food round his bowl at teatime.

The builders provided company of sorts, but they’d only been there a week, and already the constant need to smile was making my cheeks ache. Why couldn’t they bring their own tea? And the sugar! They must all have diabetes, or at least a mouthful of fillings. I’d resisted getting the work done, but the estate agent had been adamant: ‘You’ve got no chance of selling, Mrs Adams, unless you fix the roof and sort out the drainage in the garden. Buyers don’t want to wade to the front door, or trip over buckets in every room.’ 

At the bend in the drive, a young labourer appeared, wheeling his barrow down towards the road. In that moment, I saw myself through his eyes. A wild-haired widow the wrong side of seventy, living alone in a worm-eaten ruin, hidden away behind wrought iron gates, up a pot-holed track. No friends came to visit, or family for that matter. There must be something wrong with her.

I’d show him. Pulling up at the house, I slammed the car door and marched back down the drive.

‘Hello! How’s it going?’ I pasted another smile on my face as I touched his arm.

He flinched. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said…’

That’s when I noticed it.

‘What in God’s name is that?’

‘Um, looks like a garden gnome.’

‘I can see that! I mean, where’s it come from?’

‘Dunno, it was here when I arrived this morning. Thought you’d put it there.’

‘Do I look like someone who’d put a garden gnome by their front gate?’

‘Er…’

‘Don’t answer that. What’s it doing there?’

The boy rested the wheelbarrow on its legs and scratched his head. He looked like he was thinking how to reply.

‘I’m not asking you. Just thinking aloud.’

He answered anyway. ‘I’ve heard that gangs put them outside houses they’re going to burgle.’

‘What?!’

‘As a signal, like.’

I gaped at him.

‘I mean, it’s probably not that…’ Red blotches bloomed under his collar and crept up his neck. ‘Anyway, I’ll just…’ He grasped the handles of the barrow and set off towards the rhododendrons, where another man was bending over a trench, his low-slung jeans exposing an unappealing slice of pale white bottom. Appalled, I turned to examine the gnome.

It wore yellow dungarees, a blue shirt and a pointed red hat from which emerged a pair of enormous ears. It was leaning jauntily on a walking stick, regarding me with a raised eyebrow.

‘You can wipe that smirk right off your face, sunshine.’ Grabbing it round the neck, I made for the bins at the side of the house, but before I got there, a head leant over the scaffolding.

‘Mrs Adams, can I have a word?’

I looked at the gnome and could swear it winked. I must be losing my mind. I stuffed it behind the welly boots on the porch and went to see what the roofer wanted.

That night, I was startled out of sleep by a noise outside. I was used to foxes, but this sounded bigger, heavier. My stomach lurched as I remembered the labourer’s words. What if it was the burglars? I crept to the window and peered through the curtain but saw only my anxious face reflected in the dark glass.

THUD!

What on earth was that? It sounded like it was directly under my window, by the front door. Did I lock it last night? I thought I did, but now I wasn’t so sure. My heart was pounding, like I’d just run up the stairs. I looked around for a weapon. The best I could find was a hairdryer. Holding it like a pistol in my right hand, I pressed the bedroom door latch with my left. The metallic click was as loud as a gunshot. I froze, held my breath. Through the pulsing of blood in my ears, all I could hear was the slurred tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. I tiptoed onto the landing, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and peered over the banister. The front door was closed. I shut my eyes and let out a long breath, but before I’d had a chance to fully relax, a voice in my head screamed, ‘They could be inside!’ My eyes flew open. Swallowing hard, I started down the stairs, planting my feet as quietly as I could.

Reaching the bottom, I swung round, clutching my Vidal Sassoon in both hands like a blow-dry Bond. The doors to the living room and kitchen yawned open, dark against the white painted hall. I inched towards them crabwise, shoulder blades to the staircase, eyes swivelling back and forth. Peering into the living room, all was quiet. I flicked on the light. Nothing out of place. I flicked it off and was plunged into white blindness. I held my breath, hands and hairdryer raised against an unseen enemy, until my vision returned. Creeping towards the kitchen, I heard the thrum of the fridge and caught a faint whiff of Jasper in the air. How I wished he was here with me now. I flicked on the light. Everything was exactly how I’d left it the night before. My arms sagged with relief.

CRASH!

Hell’s teeth! I’ve just about had enough of this.

I charged back through the hall and in one move switched on the outside light and swung open the front door. Making myself as big as possible, I leapt onto the porch, shouting, ‘WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

But there were no burglars. No bogeymen. Just the hairy backside of a badger, bolting away down the drive.

‘Oh for heavens’ sakes!’

Chest heaving, I dropped the hairdryer and leant on my knees. That’s when I spotted a piece of grubby paper tucked under the doormat, with ‘Ms Adams’ written in pencil on top. Pulling it out with hands still shaking from adrenalin, I read the scrawled note:

I asked Tony about the garden nome. He said he found it in the bushes.

He put it by the gate in case you’d lost it. I thought you’d want to know.

     Hope I didn’t worry you with the burgler story.

From Liam (with the wheelbarow)

I snorted, rolled my eyes and slid down the doorframe onto the front step, sucking in deep breaths to calm my racing heart. Turning my head to one side, I spotted something that didn’t belong. A flash of red and yellow among the green welly boots. The bloody gnome. Reaching over, I dragged it across the flagstones. That dislodged a lump of dried earth from its base, which in turn revealed a notice moulded against its china feet. Wiping away the last smear of dirt with the sleeve of my nightie, I read:

GNOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

A memory hit me squarely in the chest, so hard it felt like I’d been punched. Tom, a gap-toothed seven year old, with scuffed knees and grubby shorts, just back from a playdate,

‘Pleeeeeese Mum, can we get a gnome? Rob’s dad’s one’s got a fishing rod!’

I barked out a laugh. My darling boy. I’ve missed you so much. Well, better late than never, eh? I patted the gnome on the head.

‘My friend, I think it’s time we paid someone a visit.’

This time, I was certain he winked.