My recent winning short story

This short story, titled “The Gardens,” won the January 2024 short story contest at Winnie & Mo’s Bookshop. The prompt was, “Your favorite memory of 2023.” Approximately 1,000 words.

It was pouring in London. We’d made it to just one bookseller and a sandwich place wedged behind the bus stop before my husband and I tired of the rain and crowds of people.

I tucked the remains of my lunch under one arm, shifted the heavy backpack on my shoulders, and pulled out the crinkled piece of paper. I’d scrawled “Europe/UK Trip Bucket List” across the top of it two months ago.

Over the past six days, we’d crossed off nearly every line on that paper, hopping trains and wandering about in foreign countries with nothing more than backpacks to find the places we’d always wanted to go, the things we’d always wanted to see. Dover. Calais. Brussels. Utrecht. The only smudged scribble left unaccounted for was Stourhead Gardens, but we’d quietly agreed upon setting foot in England that it was simply too far to go for a walk around a lake on our last day, and with an early morning flight to catch. We were exhausted.

The weather continued to patter against the windows as we stared at the list.

“A lot of rain,” my husband commented.

“That’s how it is, in London,” I replied.

He grabbed my hand suddenly. “Who says we can’t go?”

I held his eyes, careful not to let my excitement flare too prematurely. “It’s two hours by train. We’d have only an hour before we’d have to come back. It would be expensive. And you’re so tired, love.”

“What if we’re never in England again? You’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

“You won’t mind?”

He smiled, a flash of his old spontaneity peeking through. “I’ll be fine. Let’s hurry.”

The red double-decker to Waterloo Station was packed with soggy trench coats, but we found a few square feet of space and a singular yellow handrail to share. Our sore shoulders and feet were entirely forgotten as we exchanged hopeful glances all the way onto the westbound train for Gillingham. At the end of a very long two hours, we handed a twenty pound note to the lone taxi driver waiting, as though especially for us, just off the platform.

Gillingham was a much quieter, much smaller town in the English countryside. Ivy grew up every wall, and the short buildings stood solitary on their plots. There were fields and hedges and wooden fences, and the sky only sprinkled.

“No cell service at the Gardens,” the driver told us. “The tavern keeper can phone a cab for your return. Last train to London leaves just before nine.”

Our boots squelched onto the paved road twenty minutes later, then the taxi was gone. It fell quiet for the first time in days.

Thirty paces toward the Garden’s gates, card ready to purchase tickets, my stomach dropped as I caught sight of the sign propped out front. The gardens are closed for the day.

I checked my watch. It was 3:30PM. They’d closed half an hour ago.

“What if we’re never in England again? You’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

My mind whirled as I stood there on the road, my eyes locked on the notice, raindrops catching in my hair and soaking into my trench coat.

“I’m so sorry, love.” My husband took my hand. “I was worried they might be closed. We can still walk the public road around it, see pieces of it that way.”

I nodded numbly as we started down the left fork, trees overhead offering some respite from the incessant rain. My eyes wandered up the steep slope hugging the road opposite the lake. At its precipice stood a grand structure I’d seen a hundred times before in Pride and Prejudice—the Temple of Apollo.

“Up there! We’re so close!” I dropped my husband’s hand and ran for the slope. “The climb can’t be that bad; it looks like it’s separate from the rest of the Gardens, anyway!”

“Wait! Come back!” His voice was laced with panic as I took off into the undergrowth. 

Thorns and vines tore at my coat. Mud made my boots slick. I tripped on a root, barely catching myself, then halted and hissed between my teeth as a burning sensation bloomed across my shins.

“What is it? Are you alright?”

“Poison ivy,” I called over my shoulder. “Don’t come this way.”

Defeat sat itself smugly on my shoulders as I pushed the traitorous plants away with a stick and returned to the road, wincing at each step.

“I’m so sorry you couldn’t get closer.”

We returned to the tavern, ducking inside together, and were met by the warm brown eyes of the tavern keeper. Before I could utter a word, my husband was asking her about the Gardens and whether there was any way we could walk around for a minute without causing too much trouble, how we’d come from the other side of the world.

She beamed as she handed us a small, laminated pass. “The rain’s kept most of the crowds away all day,” she said. “Go take a walk around and have a nice time. I’ll call the cab for you when you get back.” As she slipped into a back room, we left a five pound note under her register.

It was a blur all the way to the steps of the Temple until we were standing there together, hand in hand, looking out over the lake. My heart leapt.

“Best part of the trip,” my husband whispered, squeezing my hand.

I nodded. “I would’ve regretted it the rest of my life.”

Hours later, we stumbled out of the Underground and onto the streets of the Capital again. It was dark. It was pouring. We both tilted our faces up.

“A lot of rain.” My husband smiled, nothing more than a soaked silhouette against the light of a street lamp.

“That’s how it is, in London,” I laughed.