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Creative Writing – Laminex and Mirrors

I leave Mr Moreton and go to the tea room where I know Matron and the others will be waiting for me. I can already imagine her fuming as I walk in, a steely unimpressed glance will be waiting for me.

I’ll look back on this and laugh, I think with a smirk across my face. As I open the door to the tea room, Matron bellows ‘Where have you been?’.

‘Sorry Matron, I was in the bathroom’, I haven’t lied to her, I was actually in the bathroom, she obviously doesn’t know what I have been up to this morning, that can only be a good thing.

‘You’re on mirrors first thing today’,

‘Yes Matron’, I grab the worn-down spray bottle, a blue watery mixture and a box of Chux wipes.

I stop as I walk down the corridor, a passage of sterile surfaces, the smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils. When Matron finds out, this will be someone else’s jurisdiction tomorrow. I won’t ever get to see Mr Moreton again. As I continue walking, I can see nothing but my reflection in the mirrors either side of the corridor. I come to the sealed window, Matron wants me to clean these too. I look down into the courtyard where I was with Mr Moreton. The crisp iceberg roses glistening in the sunlight. Everything about this place is like this. Even the garden has a sense of fakeness to it.

…

It’s been a week since I was last at the hospital and I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders. I’ve begun to realise that perhaps my dream of travelling to London may in fact, just be a dream. I ask one of the nurses if Mr Moreton is still around. He is not. I walk through the courtyard and notice a new type of flower. They are poppies. Maybe Matron finally did come around. …..

The poppy at the end is a lovely touch here. I like what you've done with the sterile surfaces. It's sort of a compliment and a complaint at the same time - an indictment on the system. Thought provoking stuff.

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The hallway stretches closer towards me bulging my eyeball. This is it he says peacefully. His face bulging with hope you need glasses to look at him. As we smash through the exit door with speed that Mr. Moreton has never been before. My heart stops for a second, I’ve been so focused on the escape for Mr. Moreton I don’t know what’s next. As I look back on the Iceberg roses I feel a sudden feel of guilt rise upon me, what’s next for those other cleaners I think to myself, as I have my plans laid in front of me and a trip to Europe waiting I know understand why I was seen as different. As I hear the wheels clunk from going to the smooth hospital floor to the rugged, bumpy pathway I see Mr. Moreton breathing in the crisp air as if he hasn’t breathed for many years. As we run to the park down the road with beautiful agapanthus and buttercup as far as the eye can see Mr. Moreton opens a new packet of cigarettes from his worn down hospital robe pocket, he whispers to me “just like old times yeah?” I feel anger rise up from within and I want to just push him back inside to the hospital, but I simply reply with “The good times”.

Hey Josh, loving the idea of busting out of that prison like hospital. And, of course,  not something she could do, as you recognise. Where are they to go? But what a gesture! Great to see your work.

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This is it. The end. Matron’s cold, disparaging gaze settles upon me like the first, cold day of winter. I see Marie standing solemnly behind her, her face a mask of surprise and disbelief, mixed with that look of annoyance that perpetually resides within her features. The ward is silent as I glide through with Mr Moreton, an air of realisation dawning upon him. It is at this moment that I wish I could just become what has occupied my thoughts for the previous few days, Laminex and mirrors, the reflective surface untouchable, unmarkable. My dreams of London and Europe are diminishing to the point where I question whether they were there at all, but I think to myself how it was all worth it, to relieve Mr. Moreton of this sterile, manicured landscape, if only for a moment. I recognise the tracks left by the wheelchair on the linoleum floor, the irony that it will not be me wielding the brutish floor polisher, it will be someone else’s jurisdiction. I pass Dot, her beehive hair stark against her expression of incredulity, the order form from this morning still clutched between her lacquered digits. It is in this moment, suspended in time for eternity that gives me clarity, I see Dot’s fervent belief in her catalogue, the notion of Christmas bonuses and rewards giving her the same satisfaction that I had hoped to achieve by leaving here. Marie, who’s ambition is contained between the four wall of the closet she resides in…

I'll tell you what I love about this piece ....Dot's "belief" in her catalogue. I love how in a phrase you have captured the essence (excuse the pun!) of the character. It is a kind of religion with her. It's a reclaiming of ground of dignity. The fact that it's so humble a claim tugs at the heart. I'm loving the way you play with the title. 'Unmarkable', no one can leave a scar. Those small moments of truth that Kennedy talks about. Great work!

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I feel an anxious flutter in my stomach. As the glass entrance slides from my sense, eyes watch me as if i'm from another planet. Walk in, walk out, I think, soon you'll be walking the streets of Paris, abandoning this moment. A sour, demanding expression aims towards me. Marie.

Is that you Zoe? Because I'm loving what you did with the short sentence there. That is so looking at the style of the text. So clever to pick up the idea of the reflective surfaces with the eyes. I love the way you objectify them too to magnify the horror of them. Great work

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I’ve been dreading this day, but I knew I’d have to face them again. London was a distant dream now, that I still had my dearest hopes for. But I don’t regret my decision one bit.

I tip-toe through the entrance, the familiar scent of cleaning chemicals and the horrid toxic soup of coffee, ash and cigarette butts consume me. I shuffle quickly along the spotless stretch of white, lifeless corridor; the only addition of colour being the blue and mauve uniforms of the workers who sweep the floor almost mechanically. It’s just shy of 7am, my hope was that I’d go unnoticed at this hour in the morning, but I think I’ve been defeated. As I turn the corner, almost at the kitchen where I picture the girls drinking tea from their thick cups, and the catering staff working busily I hear a voice.

‘Hey, never thought I’d see you here again.’ I turn around briskly, finally aware of how tense and apprehensive I must have appeared. To my surprise I see it’s Dot, with Len standing firmly by her side. The smile on her face stretches far beyond the one I’d ever witnessed during my time here. She looked euphoric, elated, and I’m reminded of the day I saw Len radiant with pride…

Who are you? I'll work this out. Shelby? I love the detailed reading of the text you have done and the way you weave this into your own piece. I especially love that the smile is wider than her face. That happens! Those are the little moments of truth that Kennedy was talking about. There are the "ow" moments, but also the "ah" moments in her writing and you captured one.

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I don’t want to be here in the winding corridors scuffed by wheels and feet. The nurses and doctors rush by, hurrying to tend to their patients, it’s a long walk to the break room. I don’t want to be here, but the way I see it there isn’t much choice, everything I purchased from Dot is laying just around the corner. I put the streets of London on hold for this. The corner turns and with it comes voices locked in heated discussion.

“This is a massive breach of our security”, his face is twisted in fury as he towers over Matron who stands in front of him, back straight, stone faced, a soldier. She replies with many rushed apologies jumbled into one. “You do understand that this will result in a whole change to our systems...that we will both have to spend countless hours on rectifying this breach to 'improve' the patients safety” again comes the flood of assurances and guarantees that this is the last time it will ever happen. It’s strange seeing her so passive, submitting to the man before her in a tailored suit and slicked back hair. He sweeps out the room stormy faced and determined while she seems fold in on herself and deflate. A sign leaves her lips while a crestfallen expression settles on her face. Matrons phone rings and after a beat she answers, “sorry, love” she says her tone soft and tender then I’ve ever seen, “I’ll be working late tonight, changes in protocol need to be drafted” she pauses a hitch in her voice, "its going to take some time", disappointment flits across her face as she hangs up. I find it strange, someone so forthright and domineering seems so small and vulnerable in this moment. Matrons shoulders straighten and her face sets back to its mask of stone, then she is walking again, purposeful and sure, I'm reminded of a soldier marching to war. Her eyes lock with mine.

“You Should Not Be Here.” She all but shouts stressing each word.

“I’m just collecting my stuff” I reply, Matron nods

“make it quick”, I scurry off around the corner and down the hall while the sun sets with hued orange and pink rays, all the while an uncomfortable pit in my stomach that I just can’t place sits heavy.

I added the sunset to shown time of day while also symbolising her time at the hospital coming to an end. I tried to make the moment with matron seem more vulnerable while also striving to attempt the idea of the reader knowing more than the narrator. The last thing i changed was more descriptions to try to replicate Cate's vivid imagery.

Hey, I had the same ideas Gabby. I was so interested in the Matron and wondered could she have got to that level and been so two dimensional. I love that you did it with a light hand too. Made me think that perhaps I was heavy handed in the way I tried to do the same thing. Great ending too. Said and unsaid at the same time.

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I never thought I would come back so soon to the two black bins, still remaining dutifully sentinel as I remember them. I have come back to fulfil my promise to Dot, perhaps to see if she is still content in her work of laminex and mirrors. The very linoleum sealing the floor is a loathsome reminder of the reason why I despised that job and the unhealthy amount of sterilisation that went on within these walls.
Everything I pass seemingly reminds me of my desired escape to London, which unfortunately has not been realised yet. Even the passing faces of the nurses brings about familiar but distant memories. But this time I don't sport an ugly mauve uniform, instead I blend in with the diversity of visitors. All these people that once looked down at me as some cleaner now don't see me at all, and I don't know which is worse.
Memories begin to fire as I pass by Mr. Moreton's room, the one enjoyable part of my former job. The door is left open, revealing an empty room that's subtle message requires little interpretation. Mr. Moreton was gone, but his absence gave me a solace that he was finally free. Despite the neat bed and the spotless room, a cleaner who I don't recognise mindlessly polishes the laminex and mirrors within her own jurisdiction.
Passing the linen closet and into the staff room, I manage to catch Dot just as she goes back to work. She greets me with a look of confusion and familiarity before it is washed away by recognition.
'The scholar returns!,' Dot exclaims. 'Your order just arrived yesterday.'
I follow her to the break room where a group of packages are together on the table. But Dot moves past them to find a lone box on a seperate counter. She bundles it together and while handing it to me she looks me in the eyes, the message clear before her words made it explicit, to thank me.
Walking out of the hospital my path is illuminated in front of me by the rising sun. With the box cradled in my arms, I set off, looking back on the hospital through the reflection of a car window

I added to the ending to the piece along with some extra imagery that links back to the title of the story and the narrator's future. I tried to make it seem that in the narrator's visit back to the hospital life has moved on without her just as the plane to London did.

Loving the bins standing sentinel.  That works so well. What a bleak image - death as freedom. That's a real 'ow' moment! Dot's look is really telling too. I wonder if perhaps there is a soul deep familiarity between Dot and the narrator. There's certainly a desire for life that they share. Even if Dot's is sadly limited.

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I leave Mr Moreton’s room and walk down the hallway to join the others in the dining room for morning tea, I am expecting to see Marie standing there with her disapproving manner, I already know what the outcome will be and it isn’t going to be pleasant. I stop at the door to see a stern-faced woman, white haired and lipstick, the colour the roses should be. Marie and Dot are standing behind her, Dot looking concerned and betrayed and Marie smirking, feeling rapture, she has been waiting for this for a long time. The light reflects of the laminated tables, blinding me with its white light. I can tell that this woman is Matron. My stomach turns and I want to throw up. ‘You’ve been disturbing the patients for far too long. We know what is best for them, you don’t. You should’ve been staying out of the way. Keeping the place clean. You are hereby to hand in your uniform and don’t expect to be able say goodbye to anyone.’

As I leave the giant panes of glass making a door, I head towards the courtyard where I smuggled Mr Moreton his cigarette. There is nothing, the sun isn’t shining there, life doesn’t touch it as a faceless cleaner sweeps the butt and takes it to the ashbins, cleaning up our memories as they drown my hopes to travel to London with metho. I am sick, knowing I will have to one day come back to this place, not knowing what would happen.

I love the way you use the cleaning of the bins, that humiliating punishment to be where her dreams drown. It's where her faith drowned isn't it. The idea of the faceless cleaner is a powerful one. Identity stripped away and you're suggesting that lasting damage is caused. A powerful piece.

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Laminex and Mirrors. Or at least that’s what I used to be. I walk back into the artificial world of the hospital, spotless and shiny. I can see my reflection in the enormous glass doors as I walk up to the entrance. The ash bins still standing either side and suddenly I can smell the same burning and staleness. The five iceberg rosebushes are looking weary, battling against their pruning. As I step inside the doors the cool air and smell of hand sanitiser hits me. Matron’s strict voice booms inside my head, a feeling of frustration overwhelms me.

Hey Jemma! I worked out who you were. I love that idea you're working with that Laminex and Mirrors stands as more of a metaphor than a job. That's really getting to the heart of the story and who is she now with her new knowledge her innocence polished away by the brutality of that place. Gold!

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As I enter through the black glass doors of the hospital I start feeling nervous and anxious about what is to come. I don’t want run into anyone so I keep my head down and walk briskly  towards the kitchen where dot would be having her morning cup of tea. The thought of seeing the matron fills me with dread and makes me feel sick inside. I get to the kitchen area and peek through the doors to see who is around. I see dot sitting at a table in the back corner reading a magazine. I open the door and walk over to her. She looks up from her magazine and is almost startled to see me. “oh hello, what are you doing here” she exclaims in her high pitched voice. “ I just came to pick up the jewelry I ordered”, “oh yes that, to tell you the truth there was a problem with the shipping and it hasn’t yet arrived” I look at her with a look of despair. “sorry” she says “if you’re not busy you can come pick it up another time” “well I guess I’ll have to” I say as I turn to leave the matron walks through the doors, she glares at me “ what are you doing here” she says scornfully “ I just came to pick up my jewelry but I’m leaving now” I say hurriedly as I make a dash for the doors before she has a chance to say anything else. I leave quickly not wanting to run into anyone else. I feel sick as the smell from the ash bins  wafts past my nose as I leave the grand entrance. I wish I never had to come back to this horrible place…

What I love about this piece is your guts. You missed the preparation exercises, but you came back from an absence and just had a go. You've got so many of the details of the stories right. You're right. It is a horrible place and that's ironic because it's meant to be a place that sustains life and instead we see people die or people get pointless cosmetic surgery. Beautiful young girls thinking there's something wrong with them and the system making them better by causing more suffering. Crazy!

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I start up the front entrance ramp, the perfectly manicured box-hedge curving me towards tinted double doors, a blur of opening and closing as patients, doctors and relatives swoop in and out.

A gentle breeze kisses me goodbye as I step through into the still dead air of the hospital. Inside, everything is the same with the exception of my small christmas decorations as a reminder of celebration and festivity in this isolated limbo. A frail man half way across the foyer is intercepted by a nurse in a Santa hat who guides him away from the exit.

‘So you decided to come!’ Dot calls excitedly as she greets me. ‘Are you even allowed here?’ she asks with a wry grin. ‘come, sit, I saved a spot right between the chicken and the mashed potatoes so we get the most food’.

Dining with Noreen and Len, I find that in my absence I was referred to as the rebel which we laugh about until Len has to go back onto the night shift….

I especially love what you did with the contrast between the natural and artificial world in this  piece. The changing of the name from the scholar to the rebel works well too It was nice that they ate free food together..

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As I make my way up to the black glass doors of that impressive atrium, the black ash bins still stand at attention, waiting to receive their daily hosing. The sun has risen above the horizon and the red of the morning is still. The putrid smell of the bins still linger in the air, although there is a different feeling as I walk past. As I make my way into the tea room I see Dot standing at the table, wearing her Gold Seller twenty-four-carat stickpin with pride, and Len looking at her so radiant. Dot spots me and races over with her box of jewelry  and April Violets body lotions.

‘We’ve missed you,’ Dot says, as she gives me a smile as to not Unsanitize herself. Her

Marie is standing over at the bench, a cup of tea and two biscuits are balanced on her palm. She gives me a thin smile continues to go about her day.

It hits 7:15 and the Matron makes her way into the tea room. All the cleaners in the room prop up and stand like those black bins out the front, sentinel. Matron looks at me but dismisses my presence, I guess I no longer have jurisdiction.

Mr Moreton’s room stands sits still. Through the sealed window I can see the iceberg rosebush, one rose left. The empty skeleton swaying in the wind. A petal falls and floats to the ground, cracked and dead with all the life squeezed out of it. As I turn to leave I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. It’s funny I think to myself, I used to be Laminex and Mirrors but maybe now I’m opportunity and windows......

I added in the sunrise to the start of my piece a symbol of new beginnings and a new chapter in the narrators story. I also added in the part about Mr Moretons room to use stronger imagery and using the environment as a way of implicitly suggesting what has happened to mr Moreton.

Is that you Dan? I was interested in what you were doing with Dot. I'm interested in the word 'sanitize' - so powerful in that context. It was clever what you did with the laminex and mirrors idea. Before she was just a reflection. Now she's see through. Cynical, but probably true. An 'ow' moment.

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I’m back. I stare at the double-glazed windows, which look from the outside like sweating pores on the infertile walls of the hospital. The walls shine a luminescent white in the summers mid-morning glaze. As I circumvent the hospital grounds to the main entry, the whitewashed bricks are like fortress defences which stand in line formation as my thong’s pitter patter across the lawn. It's been 10 days since I’ve last been here, and I’m only back to pick up the cosmetics. 2 days after I left Dot rang me and crow-ed sympathetically about my job, offering that I could get a refund on my purchases. I didn’t care to mention of the ‘mail order’ aspect of her cosmetic bauble and told her I’d stop by at some point to pick them up. When I said this, she inhaled collaboratively, and I recognized I would be the topic of conversation that morning over scotch fingers and weak tea.       When I enter, I take a b-line to the tea room, which squats awkwardly between one linen closet, (Marie’s favourite) and elective surgeries. As I walk down the corridors which are unforgivingly straight, I realise Mr. Morton’s room sits to my right only a few doors down, this was not planned, but in a final act of stupid defiance for the countless hours cleaning mirrors and Laminex, I veer my course to enter Mr. Morton’s barracks. But as I look through the window, a see a girl, with an unrecognisable age due to her ballooned nose and bruising face which looks like dark eyeliner smudged around her upper lip and brow. Mr. Morton is gone, replaced by some 18-something, fresh out of school girl, who saved money for a cosmetic makeover costing thousands of hours scrubbing floors and cleaning mirrors. Maybe, instead, she should have gone to Dot. I quickly remove my gaze from the girl, catching my own reflection in the door’s glass frame. I spare a thought for Mr. Morton, and hope he got one last for cigarette before ‘stunde null’ took hold. One thing I do notice, the room is clean, especially the mirrors.    

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I’m back. I stare at the double-glazed windows, which look from the outside like sweating pores on the infertile walls of the hospital. The walls shine a luminescent white in the summers mid-morning glaze. As I circumvent the hospital grounds to the main entry, the whitewashed bricks are like fortress defences which stand in line formation as my thong’s pitter patter across the lawn. It's been 10 days since I’ve last been here, and I’m only back to pick up the cosmetics. 2 days after I left Dot rang me and crow-ed sympathetically about my job, offering that I could get a refund on my purchases. I didn’t care to mention of the ‘mail order’ aspect of her cosmetic bauble and told her I’d stop by at some point to pick them up. When I said this, she inhaled collaboratively, and I recognized I would be the topic of conversation that morning over scotch fingers and weak tea.       When I enter, I take a b-line to the tea room, which squats awkwardly between one linen closet, (Marie’s favourite) and elective surgeries. As I walk down the corridors which are unforgivingly straight, I realise Mr. Morton’s room sits to my right only a few doors down, this was not planned, but in a final act of stupid defiance for the countless hours cleaning mirrors and Laminex, I veer my course to enter Mr. Morton’s barracks. But as I look through the window, a see a girl, with an unrecognisable age due to her ballooned nose and bruising face which looks like dark eyeliner smudged around her upper lip and brow. Mr. Morton is gone, replaced by some 18-something, fresh out of school girl, who saved money for a cosmetic makeover costing thousands of hours scrubbing floors and cleaning mirrors. Maybe, instead, she should have gone to Dot. I quickly remove my gaze from the girl, catching my own reflection in the door’s glass frame. I spare a thought for Mr. Morton, and hope he got one last for cigarette before ‘stunde null’ took hold. One thing I do notice, the room is clean, especially the mirrors.    

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Christian

That's beautiful Christian. I loved that Dot offered her a refund. And the inhaling collaboratively! I wish I'd written that. You caught Dot! Love what you did in Mr Moreton's room too. What is even the point of all this suffering - maybe we should all look in Dot's catalogue

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Someone else’s jurisdiction. I could see that.  I caught sight of myself, self-consciously bohemian, book in hand, as I made my way past the straggling blue night shift and circumnavigated the ash bins at the entrance, reflected in the morning light hitting the automatic doors. I skated through the corridor towards the tea room drawn by the clean smell of metho and ajax.

The urn was busy and Noeleen was already unpacking her Christmas bonus pack, the gnarled fingers careful to not disturb the sticky -tape, to keep it looking fresh. The new girl looked up and smiled uncertainly. The large package was, of course, mine.  With a nervous glance at the door Dot pushed the parcel across. “The earring’ll suit you,” she whispered conspiratorially, her voice low and furtive. Her own Christmas bonus pin incongruous on her mauve uniform. The new grey wallet is shoved aside to make room in my bag for April Violets body lotion.

Mr Moreton’s room is empty. Bed standing to attention. No sign of life. Well, I knew that. It’s not as if it’s a surprise and neither is the shadow of matron looming over me as I turn back. Resentment hotly molten in me I follow her to her office. It’s a free country I mutter. As I shuffle to a place in front of her desk. The desk is bare. I wonder for a moment who sprays and wipes that each morning. And then, there’s a plastic bag in front of me and I can see an opened bottle of after-shave through the semi-transparent film and an opened packet of cigarettes. Matron grimaces as she pushes them towards me. He was a Rat at Tobruk, she says,  like my dad. And she doesn’t let go of the crummy plastic bag until the very last second. She lets out a breath that she’s held for a long time, straightens her shoulders and leaves me there. Complicit.

When the airlock releases me into the weak sunshine I gulp air. Still feeling doused, sprayed and wiped clean of this judicature. Plastic bag grasped tightly. Ciggies and cologne – the new me.

Written explanation

One of the thing that struck me about the collection was the ways in which Kennedy suggests that small moments can transform the way we ‘see’ each other. In “Laminx and Mirrors” the narrator misjudged Dot. In another story a gay son misjudges his parents; in another a wife discovers she didn’t know her husband. I wanted to create one of those moments in this story, with a flash a mere moment. When Matron won’t let go of the plastic bag, I want the reader to suddenly see a whole connection that they have not previously made. The fact that the old man had cigarettes with him when he died could imply that Matron herself broke the hospital rules. I loved the narrator in this story and one reason was her openness to accepting new information. She was delighted to be wrong about Dot’s relationship with her husband. I wanted to celebrate this character’s resilience and strength. Her acceptance of ciggies and scent as her new defining characteristics reflect that she no longer sees herself just as a reflection of what others see. She now has her own status, albeit an ephemeral one that which speaks of the growing up she still has to do, she is after all just 18. I used the military image of the bed standing to attention and the colloquialism “no sign of life” to reflect her limited understanding of the concept of death….

Unfinished....