He carefully corks each bottle and passes it to the boys for its label. The bottles are then stowed into a wooden crate to be left for another few weeks.
“Well done lads. Now we deserve to quench our thirst.”
Murdo reaches down into a crate on the floor at the far corner of the shed and retrieves a dusty bottle. Using one of his old cotton singlets, now serving as a rag, he wipes the dust from the bottle to reveal its translucent contents.
“Ah well she looks good,” comments Murdo as he twists the corkscrew into the stopper in the top of the bottle.
The boys think the liquid just looks like water and don’t quite see why their Grandad looks so excited.
“Mmm and she smells good.” Murdo wafts the now open bottle under his nostrils. “Get three of those jars down on the bottom shelf lads and we’ll have us a wee tipple.”
Bill is thirsty and takes a large gulp. He coughs and splutters as the tangy dry wine hits his throat.
“Nae, nae like that lad.” Murdo laughs and gives Bill a slap on the back. “Just small sips.”
Empty crates are upturned for makeshift seats and the three make themselves comfortable. The wine works its magic. Senses are dulled, cares forgotten and humour found in inconsequential items.
“Aye. This is the life ain’t it lads.” Murdo philosophises. “A man journeys all his life, striving for something better when all the while it is within him.”
The boys look at each other and back at their Grandad. They do not really understand what he is saying but he is smiling so they figure it must be good and giggle.
“Ye know I came to New Zealand with nae but me boots and five shillings. I’ve worked hard, lived in many places, seen life and death and illness, always thinking there was more to be had. But ye know lads, none of it matters. Nae, none of it matters if ye have peace in ye heart.” His eyes glaze over as if he has drifted off to another time and place and he pummels his chest with his open palm. “In here lads, that’s what counts, what ye have in ye heart.”
“Are you boys out there?” Charlotte calls from the house.
“Oops, quick lads, finish ye glasses. Ye Nana will kick our backsides if she catches us.”
The boys, in a fit of giggles, imagining Nana kicking Grandad’s bottom, down what wine they have left. The jars are quickly rinsed under the garden hose and replaced back on the shelf.
The three males swagger back up to the house, grinning from ear to ear and trying to pretend nothing is amiss. Charlotte takes one look at them, senses what has been happening in her absence, and walks back inside with an unimpressed look.
.....
“Aah, it’s wonderful when the grandchildren pay us a visit. Those lads and lasses sure keep a man on his toes,” remarks Murdo as he enjoys a quiet read of the newspaper in bed one chilly August morning.
“Yes, you do like having them around, don’t you?” replies Charlotte.
“Aye. Their lives are so different from me own childhood yet the simple pleasures are still the same. Family. Fun. And food – what is for breakfast me dear?”
“Oh you’re incorrigible Murdo,” teases Charlotte. “Always thinking of your stomach.”
“Well me dear, ye know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” chuckles Murdo. “It’s a shame Lexie and her lasses don’t visit us more often. Their one visit was such fun for the lassies. I guess it’s just an issue of time and money.”
“Mmmm,” Charlotte ponders a response. She often wonders whether she expected too much of Murdo’s eldest daughter so soon after her mother’s death, but there is no point in dwelling on it. The past cannot be changed.
“Her husband Bill works from dawn to dusk,” Murdo continues speaking his thoughts out loud. “He really should ease up or he’ll be in an early grave just like his father before him.”
Smiling, Charlotte shakes her head. Murdo has forgotten that for many years he too worked from dawn to dusk, believing he had to do so to provide a better place for his family. She heads for the kitchen to prepare the morning’s porridge.
.....
Two plates of steaming porridge are set at the table. Normally Murdo would have donned his checked navy robe and matching moccasins and be sitting at the table as well.
“Murdo. Porridge is ready,” calls Charlotte. “Are you coming?”
There is no reply and no noise from the bedroom so Charlotte goes to investigate.
Murdo is propped up on the pillows; his eyes are closed, no longer reading the newspaper resting on the bed covers. He is smiling, looking pleased with himself. Charlotte thinks he must have dropped back to sleep.
“Murdo. Wakey wakey. Your porridge will be getting cold.”
Murdo does not stir. Charlotte prods his arm. He gives no response. Suddenly a terrible thought enters her head. She feels his neck. She cannot feel a pulse. She lowers her head to listen for his breath. There is none.
“Oh Murdo! Oh Murdo! Oh Murdo!” Charlotte sobs, holding Murdo’s limp hand to her heart. She looks through her tears at Murdo’s face and thinks he looks as happy in death as he did in life.
Epilogue – Hawera 1995
The most precious of a life’s accumulation of tangible treasures are now contained within the confines of the small room. The oak dressing table is a temporary home to framed snapshots of happy celebrations, smiling faces of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There is a portrait of Lexie’s late husband, Bill, whose ill health had made him an old man long before his time, some twenty years earlier. A trinket box overflows with strings of pearls, cameo brooches and a watch whose hands have ceased to turn. Seized hinges on the winged mirrors of the dressing table ensure they stay just at the right position to check hem lines are straight, petticoats are hidden and there are no ladders in the backs of stockings.
Three of the four walls of the room are covered with cream wallpaper with a small floral design. The fourth wall is all windows and allows the room to be flooded with afternoon sun. On this occasion the curtains are drawn, filtering the sun and affording some privacy to the three generations closeted within. On the walls there are two framed prints of no significance; they were there when Lexie moved in and will be there when she has moved on. This is a room with vinyl floors. Too many ‘little accidents’ mean carpet is no longer an option.
A built-in single wardrobe occupies one corner of the room, its door unable to shut. The top of the door serves as a hanger for a pale pink toweling robe, all other hangers having been fully employed holding woollen cardigans, polyester frocks and matching twin sets in an array of colours. The clothes are mostly store-bought; failing eyesight and arthritic joints put a halt to the productive hobbies of knitting and sewing. Practical flat-heeled shoes in black, brown and navy sit neatly in pairs on the floor of the wardrobe.
Centre-stage is a single bed with its cerise bedspread quilted in a diamond pattern. The side ruffles of the bedspread conceal the precise hospital folds of the woollen blankets and white cotton sheets beneath. The wooden divan with its soft inner-sprung mattress has been superseded. A hard hospital mattress on a hospital frame whose mechanics will assist with sitting and lying stands in its place. Whether Lexie fell and broke her hip or the hip broke and she fell is irrelevant now. The fortnight of pain, waiting while the hospital system decided whether it was worthwhile fixing, has broken her spirit. Today the matriarch of the family lies on her side in the bed. Her breathing is laboured, a sign of her body’s struggle to remain on this earth.
She has no further use for the crooked stack of romance novels, which are within easy reach on the bedside cabinet. Precariously perched atop the stack is the essential magnifying glass. All four of her daughters, share her passion of reading so there will be no problem finding a new home for the books. Most of her other precious possessions, including the porcelain-faced doll, have already found homes with the next generation. The bedside cabinet is also home to an assortment of pill bottles, a tissue box whose embroidered cover is frayed
and a stack of letters containing recent news from faraway children. A battery-operated transistor radio, permanently tuned to National Radio, used to help pass the night hours when sleep eluded her but without a hearing aid it is of little help anymore. Laying in an open spectacle case are the well-worn glasses with their thick convex lenses, which make the wearer’s eyes appear bulbous.
Nearly hidden, a chocolate wrapper is scrunched in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. A life-long favourite, supposedly off the diet for a diabetic, has been savoured in recent weeks. Lexie knows it will make no difference to the inevitable outcome, so why not indulge in some of life’s small pleasures that have been denied her for too long.
To one side of the bed, there is just enough room for a comfortable chair where many an hour has been spent poring over the daily crossword from the newspaper. Pencil, eraser, dictionary and thesaurus are always close at hand. With both quick and cryptic crossword complete, Lexie can sit and look out the window across to the car park, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the many visitors, or admiring the rose gardens beyond. With a deep breath, the scent of the standard roses outside the bedrooms of the family homestead can be remembered, or is it the climbing rose outside the back door with its deep red blooms. Or maybe eyelids become heavy and there is time for a little nap before the bell will go, gently reminding everyone that tea will be served in the dining room at 5.30pm.
Nobody enjoys the comfort of the chair today. They stand vigil beside the bed, whispering in muted tones about the drawn features of Lexie’s face. The creases about her mouth are more pronounced but her mouth has not been able to pronounce any words for several hours now. False teeth have been safely tucked away in the top drawer for several days. Lexie’s brown eyes are closed but the family can see that they have lost their sparkle.
Not understanding, Lexie’s granddaughter leaves the room to request the staff do something to make her grandmother more comfortable. But death is commonplace to them. They know that soon her breathing will become very shallow and quiet. And so it does. They know that shortly after, the breathing will stop forever. And so it does. But not before the granddaughter says,
“Goodbye Grandma, I love you. You are going to a better place.”
About the Author
Tania Roberts is an accountant by day and a writer by night. She lives in rural Taranaki with her teenage children, three cats and four sheep.
Tania was present when her Grandmother passed away. She believed her Grandmother had not had a happy life and set about discovering why.
A Better Place Page 23