Writer's Notebook

This Week’s Theme: Drinks chocolate milk when (s)he has a bad day Joe turned the key over and over in his between his fingers, trying to drum up the courage to open the drawer. He didn’t know what made him hesitate. It certainly wasn’t fear. It was akin to what archaeologists must feel before they penetrate into the heart of some ancient shrine; a mixture of fearful reverence and excitement. Susan had found the key in mum’s jewel box. This draw which had been the subject of so much youthful speculation. They knew it must be special for Mum had always kept it locked. Now that she was gone, was it fair to give light of day to its secrets? He heard a noise behind him and saw Susan with the vacuum cleaner in her hand. “There’s only here to finish now. Well, what have you found?” “I haven’t opened it yet. I…” “Well, what are you waiting for?” she exclaimed bending down to open the draw. She looked up at him in expectation on finding it still locked. Joe sighed, bent down and fitted the key into the lock. Still he hesitated. It was only Susan’s impatience that gave him the necessary resolve. They opened the draw and took out a large ring binder full to the rim with handwritten papers. It was no longer possible to close it properly, so much was crammed into it. And then, there was a smaller notebook which they recognised immediately. It was exactly the same as the numerous other notebooks they had found on the library shelves. Ever since Dad had died, Mum had been using them to write up a daily account of her doings and feelings. Susan and Joe had spent hours the night before reading various extracts to each other, just as Mum used to do when they were still at home. “This must be the last volume,” said Joe, tears coming to his eyes. “The last words of Mrs. Elizabeth Stanley…” “Yes!” exclaimed Susan excitedly. “And look here! All these names – they correspond exactly. All those mysterious titles in coloured pen; they all correspond to one of the sheets in this binder. They are all recipes for some kind of chocolate drink.” Joe glared absentmindedly at her. There had been hundreds of coloured entries in Mum’s journal. Each as cryptic as the other. At times, there were just one or two per week. Lately, there was several each day. Now he understood. How often had he seen Mum creep out of the kitchen, glass in hand. Joe snatched the binder out of Susan’s hands. He would take care of things. He would bury the evidence deep beneath the earth where no one would ever find it. No one must discover the truth that Mum had been a chocoholic all her life.
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