Bluey-blue by Tracy Ann Williams
Bluey-blue, lazy-hazy, summer-sky days. This is the stuff dreams are made of and it was all here. And more than that even, this dream was a reality.
She sat on the grass, smiling, feet wiggling under the cold fresh flowing water. The water ran and ran but as to its destiny she did not wonder; the only importance was here and now.
From here, the small houses looked so peaceful. She could sit and watch forever. Grasshoppers croaked, birds tweeted and the sunshine sneaked its shine through the fir trees. Everything happened naturally, it did not seem then, it was just beautiful.
As usual the old man was busy in his garden; digging at the usual, comfortable pace and sipping tea from his mug. He stood there, like a permanent fixture, as natural as the green grass. She sat and watched him every day and grew fonder of his easy little world with every minute.
There were other gardens equally pampered and there were other old men who planted straighter and more colourful carnation-filled rows edged with burgundy wallflowers and forget-me-nots. She did not understand why, but she felt somehow more drawn towards this particular garden. There was something in it that made her feel so warm.
The sun slid momentarily behind a cloud. Rows of fir trees became darker for a moment or two. She looked around at the mountains, enclosing her from the outside world. She could not see the road or hear the cars. The mountains were her protector, her shield from society and boredom.
She looked back into her garden; ‘her’ garden, she thought. It felt as though it were hers. Often she fantasized that she was a little girl in a story book; a little girl who owned a magic box. Inside the magic box were the mountains, the stream, the flowing water, the old man and the garden. All she had to do was open the box and step inside to become part of true happiness. Everything inside the box was so easy and so welcoming.
The old man was not small or frail. He looked very strong and his body worked at the garden with clear strength and determination. He seemed never to tire of his garden, trowel and spade. He did not retreat into the shade from the hot sun; his back was very red from the rays, but he seemed to feel no discomfort at all. He expressed only contentment.
The chickens clucked for corn and the little white dog barked for biscuits. As regular as clockwork, out would come his little round wife with her floral apron and kind smile. She always carried a mug of tea and two cigarettes. Together, in the heat, they would sit and smoke and drink until it was time for more digging and planting.
Hours and hours ticked time into days and days became weeks. And still she sat, right through this summer, simply staring and thinking about the old man and his garden and his peaceful life. She dreamed her own dreams, too, dreams of a future in which she felt as fine and clear and calm as this real-dream-world.
Often, there came the sound of children playing in the garden. They came on their toy tractors and bicycles. They squabbled and giggled and pushed each other over and made each other cry. They sat in the sand pit and fed sand to the dog and they dared their fingers through the holes in the fence of the chicken run. Sometimes they got pecked and screeched in pain. They were always helping the old man to do the gardening. He was the supervisor and they were the little workers. He watched them with bricks and seeds and buckets of earth. He wheeled them up and down the long path in the rickety wheelbarrow. They were children far too young to achieve any satisfactory gardening but she was impressed by how obviously they loved the old man and how constantly they never tired of his company. She noticed also, how the old man showed the same sentiments for the children. Children who messed up his pathway, stood on his flowers and trampled his cabbages – he did not raise his voice once.
There were sometimes two older children in the garden. Their appearance was more rare. Sometimes the girl and the old man would sit on the bench by the greenhouse and point at things and laugh as though they shared many memories. The girl always smiled and stared dreamily around the garden as if she never wanted to leave.
Day after day the bluey-blue sky shined and the sunshine glowed. The mountains towered overhead and the water flowed cool over her toes. Day after bluey-blue day she watched the old man and his garden of love. Admiration grew inside her. It was all so simple, shut away from the rest of the world. Here, there were only red roses and green leaves, laughing children and growing vegetation. Here was all tenderness and devotion.
Summer slowly began to end. Rainbows appeared in the sky with the rain and finally everything turned grey. The birds packed up and left for the south and a white powder flowed over the mountains. The stream froze and soon all that once was green was white.
And so, she stopped her visits because they became impossible. Christmas came and went. A new school term began. A new age began. Boyfriends walked into the scene of her life and the pace quickened. Pretty soon kissing and dancing and staying out late became the thing to do. She thought about her life and she thought about getting older and wizer. And all around her she saw people shouting, screaming, wishing and dreaming for the bluey-blue days of summer.
Solitude engulfed her. She knew it was time to go back. On went the gloves, hat and coat. She pulled on her boots and set out over the snow for the stream. She had to go back and find out more. Time was going too quickly and before she knew it it might all be gone.
She stopped. Something was wrong. She stood at the frozen stream and felt a cold foreboding. She looked at the garden. It was different. She felt fearful. She went to the fence. The garden was overgrown. The roses were a mass of thorns, flowerless. The chickens were gone. The little dog was gone. An overturned plastic tractor lay in the pathway beside a punctured football. The wheelbarrow, broken, lay on the snow with a trowel on top of it.
Urgency gripped her. She looked further, through the garden, into the house. It was broad, cold, grey daylight. At the back of the house, on the first floor, the curtains were shut.
And now she is inside the house. And now she is inside the bedroom. The round old lady’s eyes are red, her face full of sorrow. There are no children anywhere. Only silence and adults. Adults saying silly, desperate things. And the old man is in the room. And the old man is lying in the bed. And the old man is nearly dead. His eyes are half-open and his mouth is half-open and looks almost dead.
“But he can hear you,” says the nurse, “so speak to him.”
And they try to speak.
She watches him closely. The other girl comes into the room and stands at the side of the bed. She does not cry or reach out. But she does not smile or point either, as she did in the garden not so very long ago. I watch myself watch my family watch my grandfather die. I must go to myself and hold myself and try to stop asking why.
“He can hear you,” says the nurse, who is my mother, his daughter, “so speak to him,” she says.
But how can I speak to him when there is a needle stuffed into his arm which is pumping morphine into his veins every few seconds, morphine to ease the pain. A baby computer is pinned to his pyjama which tells us whether or not he is dead yet.
Why doesn’t he go outside and dig the garden? His flowers are dying. His vegetables are being eaten by caterpillars and he must go and stop them now! His little children are lost, they want him to come out and play, but still he lays there, not moving.
And I know, my grandfather is dying.
I never expected him to die. I thought he would wait for me to go with him. I didn’t realise he was old. I didn’t know he could become ill and have to leave without me.
The room has a strange smell. A smell I shall never forget. He lays there cold and still and I sit on the floor and look at the body. I think ‘surely this is not possible. Any minute now he will speak.’
I talk to him but he can no longer hear me. And eventually it is time to go.
And I know my grandfather is dead.
Monday, January 25th, 1988. 7pm.
ALONE IN MY ROOM AND THINKING
PEOPLE ARE SO DISAPPOINTING WHEN YOU KNOW THEM INSIDE OUT
27TH OCTOBER, 1989, SEVEN SISTERS, AGE 18
Tracy A. Williams 