Newcastle Herald short story competition 2022: Kristen Mair writes 'Remembered rain'

My grandma's love is a baked dinner that takes hours to prepare - spuds to a golden crunch, gravy mixed to the right consistency, and meat timed to a perfect tenderness. And as always, a bottle of tomato sauce at the ready, no matter how much it makes my grandma wince when it's used by a heavy hand.

Sunday roast is a weekly tradition that has an unspoken law -not to be missed. A trip to the hospital is the only exemption permitted. The table is laid, the cutlery shines and yet at the head of the table sits an empty chair.

Love is a wedding ring that goes round and round below an arthritis swollen knuckle as rain begins to lightly tap on the glass.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," I say, for the lack of anything better. "He'll be back any minute now."

Grandma nods, but she does not look at me. And still the ring spins. I exchange a silent glance with Mum. She frowns.

"Maybe we should just start?" Mum says. She's had an uncomfortable look on her face since the table was set for four.

I peek at the weather app on my phone, and the angry reds tell me this won't be a typical storm. When I look up, there's a wet sheen in Grandma's eyes that matches the one outside.

"You know, I could go out and check on him? Remind him what time lunch is?"

Mum stands up, her mouth forming a protest when Grandma turns towards me, and the relief on her face is so obvious, it causes Mum to sit back down.

"Oh, would you, dear? I don't mean to trouble you. It might be a bit tricky. You know how he likes to go to dangerous spots." Grandma mutters, "Though, I really wished he didn't."

"He always said he got the best fish that way," I say.

She makes a sound in her throat that's as much of a verbal disagreement that she'll allow herself.

I grab my raincoat and turn to the door aiming to be quick. Concern has such tender hooks that like to keep and trap.

Not fast enough. My arm is grabbed and Mum whispers, "Don't."

I ease my arm away. "Look at her. I have to."

Mum sighs and rubs her eyes so hard I see red streaks left behind.

"OK. But don't be long. This is hard enough."

I nod and as I step out, I hear the last of Grandma's weighted worry, "Dear? You will bring him back, won't you?"

There is something of a promise she's begging me to fulfil.

"I'll be back soon."

She nods and her eyes soften, but her ring continues to twist around her wedding finger.

THE storm is trying to earn itself a name by the time I get to the beach. The wind thrashes so hard I feel each individual water droplet go splat against my skin. It stings.

I make my way down from the soft shifting sand to the unsteady harshness of the rock pools. Some have plunging holes where a whole pocket universe of sea life lives and dies by the turning of the tides. How fair is that?

And out there by the furthest crusted edge of the rocks is a figure, in a familiar shirt and with a fishing rod resting on one shoulder. A pod of pelicans waits in a circle around him, bidding for his luck and his mercy for an easy meal.

A jolt streaks through my body. I clamp my mouth down hard against the sound that wants to escape.

It couldn't be . . . could it?

"Hello?" I raise my voice above the rising swell.

The figure begins to turn, and I almost catch his face under a worn hat. Then a wave, so tall it swallows the horizon, crashes. And the fisherman disappears. No!

I run. I jump from rock to rock, ignoring the wet and the seaweed that's determined to make me slip - to stop me. At one point, I pinwheel, all but certain I'm about to crack my head open like an egg for breakfast. However, balance can be a miraculous thing given the right circumstances.

A second later I'm leaping through the ring of startled pelicans. Their deep rumbles of protest and ruffled feathers do nothing to slow me down. I skid to a stop at the edge and see nothing but churning foam.

Then - a hand. I'm not going to lie. I almost jump in after it.

But in a panicked glance I see a garish orange life jacket lying crumpled by an empty net. Tying one of the straps around my wrist, I jam my foot into a crack, lean over and fling the jacket out.

"Grab it!"

There's a second where I think I've lost him. When his hand sinks down and all I can think is, no not again.

Then my arm is wrenched. It takes everything in me not to slide forward. I grit my teeth and with all the strength that I have - I pull. No, not this time, I promise.

Next thing I know I'm blinking the salty sting out of my eyes and staring up at a clearing sky.

"You saved my life," the fisherman huffs.

He looks worse for wear. But he's alive.

"Yeah. Today, my timing was right."

I'd like to give him a hug. But more than anything I want his nose to be wider, the crinkles around his eyes deeper and his eyes to be brown. I want that fantasy I told myself when I thought for an instant, he was someone else. I want the lie my Grandma, in her confusion, is easily comforted with.

I want my grandad back.

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Kristen Mair, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.