Short Story Competition!

Life on Wheatfield

by Elisabeth (Year 9)

“Oh, Digby!” I squeal as he nips at my boots. I lift him onto my lap and stroke his smooth, long feathers reassuringly. “You need to eat your dinner or else you'll be hungry later.” I try to train him, but he is just a duck. Digby is one of the many animals on our farm, but he is by far my favourite. I don't let anyone else know, but he is my best friend. I sigh, knowing that he eating on my command is hopeless. I see headlights flash on the barn wall, she was finally here...

“Camille?! Darling, where are you? You're not with that duck again I hope, you really do spend too much time with that animal!” Aunty Beth's voice called as a grin lit my face. I had been anticipating her visit ever since Dad had gruffly told me last week. Digby quacked as I let him down in a hurry, racing out of the barn into Aunty Beth's welcoming arms. I contently embraced the smell of her flowery perfume.

“It's Cameron. Remember?” I was changing my name as soon as I could- Camille was too girly. Unfortunately I am only 8, turning 9 in two months time, so the name change is a long way away. I tried to brush the thought of my Birthday out of my mind. I hate my Birthday.

My Dad becomes particularly moody as this was the day Mum and my twin brother died. Our farm is a 45 minute drive from the closest hospital in Tykesville. The two died in childbirth, I was the only one to survive. It is common knowledge that Dad only wanted a boy to help him run the farm. Instead he got me, a girl. I'm also the reason his beloved wife and son died. I always try to please him. I draw pictures of our animals and the rest of Wheatfield - our farm - and slide them under his study door. He doesn't even acknowledge them and instead I find them crumpled up in the rubbish a week later. My father doesn't love me, but why should he? I tore apart his perfect vision of a family and I will live with that guilt forever. I hope to become the son he never had by doing extra chores, acting like a boy and dressing like a boy. Eventually, he will forget that I am a girl and finally accept me. Until that day I do’nt need him. I have Digby.

After we had eaten our stir fry dinner, Aunty Beth sat me down on the couch and presented me with my packet of Oreos. It is tradition that she brings them when she visits; they were my Mum's favourite. I halt her to retrieve Digby before she begins one of her stories. Digby loves her memories of Mum just as much as I do, and it saves me having to retell it to him later. Aunty Beth looks at me with an amused expression as I crack open the Oreos and crumble the first one, feeding it to Digby.

“Did you know your mother had a nickname?” Aunty Beth questioned. I shook my head. Now I was really curious.”'Eggie', it was. Quite a funny story this one. I must have been about 10 at the time, that would make your mother 7.....” I relaxed into the cushion, absorbing every word she spoke. It was a light hearted tale that had me gasping for breath from laughter. Before long, it was over and I was sent to bed. I detoured past my Dad's office, (this was routine) calling 'Goodnight'. No reply. I swallowed my disappointment. I smuggled Digby up to my room, he usually slept at the end of my bed. The face of my brother appeared, I was asleep. The odd thing is when I wake up, I can't picture him.

The sun woke me early. Today was Monday. School. I groaned as I stretched muscles, peaking out the window to find Dad milking the cows. The wafting smell of pancakes relieved me from my morning drowsiness. Aunty Beth's pancakes were unbeatable. Carefully lifting Digby, I went to greet her.

I unwillingly left both Digby and Aunty Beth for the bus stop. My Aunt was driving home straight after I left for school, with the promise she would see me in a month. The rickety bus pulled up in a cloud of dust, I took my normal seat near the back. The rest of the day passed like any other. Strange glances from other girls at my dress sense and the teacher's nasally voice waking me from revival. Finally the bell went for the end of school; I had plans to clean the chicken pen to surprise Dad.

As I dumped my school bag and sprinted to the barn to see Digby, I stopped dead. My heart in my mouth as I noticed the trail of duck-like feathers. The barn was empty apart from more scattered feathers, the door slightly ajar. The tears were pouring as I searched the rest of the farm. Digby was nowhere. I ran to the house and thumped wildly on my father's office door because it was locked. He yelled angrily, “Be quiet, girl. I'm on the phone.”

My hair is irritating my eyes as I whirl around. I can't see, I can't think. I sprint to the barn and snatch the shearing scissors off the hanger. I grab my hair in thick bunches. Locks fall to the ground. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the metal. I gasp. I am a mirror image of the face from my dreams. The thought that perhaps this would be enough to make my father love me crosses my mind. I don't care.

I turn without a parting glance on Wheatfield and run. Digby has been more of a friend and parent than my father ever was, I'm coming Digby.