Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection

by Craig Saunders

  Erm, never mind that, and just you mind what I said about telling tales.

  So, where was I? Oh, yep.

  'No use in asking him, though. All you get in return is that little smile of his, enigmatic, that’s him to a t,' William said – you know what he’s like. He likes those fancy words of his.

  'I guess,' I told him, and as we stood sipping that thick coffee, peering through the rain at the strange little man kneeling across the way, a funny thing happened. A shaft of sunlight came through the driving rain, spearing through right over Harold’s plot. It didn’t touch the rest of the allotments, though, no, just his.

  'Would you look at that?' I said then, bemused. 'No wonder his tomatoes are s’big. Bugger’s got his own weather.'

  'I’ve never seen nothing like that,' Tom said to me, searching the sky for a hole in the clouds. I looked, too, and I swear there weren’t none. Tom caught my eye, and I just shook my head. Weren’t nothing to it. But I could see what he was thinking.

  As we turned back to Harold, weeding madly in the pouring rain, that funny little fellow clutched his chest and keeled over backwards, legs stuck under him.

  I knew well enough what that meant. I’d done exactly the same thing that Christmas past.

  'Shit!' I said, and stepped out into the rain, not wanting to run, but walking fast. A man at my stage of life don’t run, but he do walk fast when the need takes him and his wife weren’t around to see.

  Tom’d seen what I’d seen, and he followed me, calling out to Arthur and William as he went. I could see, even though the rain hadn’t let up at all, that Harold weren’t moving at all, and if he could’ve I’m sure he would’ve. His legs was buckled under him, and that can’t be comfortable at any age, let alone Harold’s – he must have been seventy, at least. No matter how spry you are, you don’t lay on your own legs for the hell of it.

  'Harold!' I called out as I made my way over to him. I tell you, I was worried for him then. I’ve got a knack for spotting the obvious, as your mother no doubt tells you from time to time, along with ‘he’s a daft old bugger…good, I can see you’ve sense enough not to deny it.

  'Harold, hold on!' I said, walking as fast as I could. As I opened his gate, I got the funniest feeling. It was still raining, and I could see it behind me, for a minute it was pounding my back but my face was dry…and warm. The sun was on my face, and I could see blue sky above my head…but that just couldn’t be. It was like it were the day before, when spring had got its dancing shoes on, not like that day when it was in a huff ‘cause its date didn’t show. It don’t sound right, now I say it, but that’s the best I can do. I’m no Wordsworth.

  Right then I stopped cold, but Harold was still before me, hand clutched like a claw over his chest and his jaw tight, his eyes staring at that patch of bright blue sky.

  'Harold,' I said, and even though my head was telling me to turn around and go back into the rain, my heart told me there was a man here, in trouble.

  I knelt beside him, and the strangest thing happened. He looked up at me, and smiled. That weren’t the strangest thing. The rain’d stopped, but just in this little patch of cultivated ground, and the land had grown warm with sunlight and sweet spring air. Sounds faded in the background, and all around us, like a there was a wall, the rain continued outside. I could hear the boys behind me, their boots swishing on the grass between vegetable beds, the buzz of early flies, and even, distantly, the pouring rain from beyond this unreal space that I found myself in, but as though it came through a layer of double glazing.

  'I’m dying,' he said to me.

  'Don’t be daft,' I said and took his hand. His face was grey. I knew the others was beside me, looking down at him. Tom hunkered down beside me. Arthur and William stood, and I could feel their gaze on Harold sometimes, but I also got the sense that they were looking around, too. I could imagine their awe painted bright on their crinkly old faces. I didn’t have time for awe. We didn’t have a telephone, but Harold clearly needed help. But for a dying man he seemed quite chipper.

  'I am, and I know I am,' he told me. 'But don’t worry about me. I’ve had a good innings.'

  'I’ll go and get some help,' I told him right back. 'You’ve had a heart attack…' I started to say, but he just laughed at me, but not unkindly.

  'I know full well what’s happening to me, and it’s long overdue,' he said.

  'I could go get an ambulance…' I offered, but he just told me, 'I’d rather you didn’t,' he said, and smiled once again. That smile was warm and sweet, like the sudden break in the weather just for us.

  Then he told me what I’m going to tell you, so listen well and good. 'I want to die here, with my vegetables,' he said. 'When you step outside, you’ll find I’m already dead. It’s a funny thing, really, but I’ve no one else to give it to, so you four will have to do. I get the sense you’re all good men, and like me you’re looking at the long dark to come and wishing for just a few more years…' he grabbed my coat and pulled me closer, whispering urgently, as though his life was about to flee…but as he said, he was already dead. It was just a matter of time. The coroner later told us he’d died instantly. A thunderbolt of a coronary, he reckoned, the big one I’d been spared that Christmas.

  'Just relax,' I said to him, thinking he’d gone a bit batty.

  He smiled that little knowing smile again, and his face crinkled with mirth. 'I’m as relaxed as it’s possible to get,' He said. Then he said, and I remember the exact words even to this day, 'Now don’t be obtuse, and just listen. I’m 128 years old, and this is my gift to you…a few more years in the sun. This allotment…well, it does funny things.'

  Yep, I swear it. His exact words, and I’m no liar. Now, just listen.

  So I thought he was delirious, lost in his own world. I remembered my heart attack. It hadn’t been such a doozy, but it was still serious. What heart attack isn’t? But not serious enough to ramble incoherently. But the rain…the rain was right on the other side of his little fence, and still it didn’t come into this world the five of us were in.

  'Yes,' he said, 'I can see you see it. The outside world doesn’t make much difference here. It’s just a matter of wanting. And I don’t want it to rain so it doesn’t. I don’t know how it will work with four of you, but I’ve seen you all hanging around in Tom’s shed. Thick as thieves. I’m guessing all you have to do is think alike, but then the allotment pretty much does all the work itself. All you have to do is spend some time here, feed the allotment, and it will give of itself back to you. Spend some time here, and eat of the allotment.'

  Well, I flat out thought he was bonkers, and I pretty much said so.

  But, 'No!' he shouted and I jumped. A man that looks that hue shouldn’t be able to shout like that, crazy or not. 'I’m giving you a gift, and I’ll be damned if you don’t take it. The allotment is hungry, but if you feed it, nothing you won’t want to, just grow vegetables…that’s all you have to do. It’ll feed you.'

  I caught Tom’s eye. His eye said the same thing mine did…this is one crazy old boy.

  'Don’t believe your eyes? Well, I can’t make you believe. But trust and grant a dying man’s wish, and I’ll give you proof. Just apply to the tenant’s association tomorrow, before my body’s cold, and you’ll be given this little, beautiful, amazing patch of land. I got it from an old boy, and now I’m giving it to you. Trust it, believe in it, and it will grant you time. That’s its trick, see, time. Now for the proof.'

  He closed his eyes, breath sighed out from his lips, and the rain came tumbling in as he died.

  Yep, he died. I didn’t say it was a sweet story.

  Anyway, I thought ‘It shouldn’t rain on the dead,’ and the rain stopped. But just over the allotment. Harold’s face, serene in death, only had the thinnest film of water dripping from his forehead, whereas the four of us were drenched.

  My heart was hammering in my chest, let me tell you. I thought I was going to up and join him staring up at the sky.

 
I had an idea then that old Harold weren’t as crazy as I’d thought. I decided, at the very least, to try it. Weren’t nothing to lose, after all.

  'Tom, Arthur, William…think how much you’d like it to rain…' I said.

  'What?' William said to me, but I weren’t having none of it from him. He was just as cantankerous then as he is now.

  'Just do it!' I shouted.

  And they must have done so, because all of a sudden it was pouring, and once again the rain was dripping from the end of my nose.

  'Now sunshine!' I shouted even louder, beginning to laugh, too, if you can believe that.

  I could see wonder on their faces, but they done it, as did I. The sun shone down on us and Harold’s body.

  It was magic, and it was time. I come to understand that later, while I was sitting in a new shed in the corner of Harold’s wonderful allotment. We laughed then, laughed like men who have found out they have won, won against the encroaching dark.

  There, told you it were just a short tale. So when you’re mother tells you to eat your vegetables, you just listen to her, you hear me? ‘Cause those vegetables on that table come from our allotment, mine, William’s, Arthur’s and Tom’s.

  Of course it’s true. Ask your mother.

  Eh? What do I think it is? Well, thinking and understanding I don’t know much of, but I tell you what I do know. A man puts his years into something, and well, sometimes it gives back. You just see if it don’t. That allotment, well, that’s the allotment of time. I can’t prove it, but I’ll tell you another little secret…that was twenty years gone. Mabel’s since passed and I’m sad you never got to know her. In the real world, the one were time don’t stand still on a whim, I’m ninety. On the inside, though, where it still counts, I’m but a young sprite of seventy.

  I wonder, don’t you? I wonder if a man of twenty had been given the allotment…I wonder if he could live to two hundred…maybe three. I wonder what a man could achieve in such a lifetime. If only we could grow time.

  But for now, eat your vegetables, and perhaps you’ll grow as old as me one day…maybe you’ll live to be three hundred, who knows? Now quick, run along! Here comes your mother…

  What? Me? I never talk nonsense, sweetheart…

  Don’t be silly, sweetheart. It’s just a little story.

  *

  Mental people fascinate me. Long time readers of my blog know all about my mentalism. I won't go into it here. But here's a story based on a piece of (UK) legislation that's dear to my heart.

  4 Degrees of Separation

  Mental Health Act 1983/Amended: Section 1 (2) ...'mental disorder' means any disorder or disability of the mind ...

  Dear Diary,

  When you’ve been married thirty years, it’s not love that’ll get you through. First flush of love, might see you through the first couple of years. After that, the niggles start to creep in. Then it’s maybe a kind of tolerance. That’ll go on for a while. Toward the end, and all marriages have to end, one way or the other, it certainly isn’t love.

  Not hate, either. Don’t get me wrong. It’s pretty close.

  Spite. That’ll see you the end.

  All marriage’s have got to end one way or the other. I’ve got a suspicion mine might be ending the other way, pretty damn soon.

  Signed, Gertie.

  April 7th 2005

  Dear Diary,

  Been hanging out with all the diazepamela’s at the knitting circle a bit too much. I’m starting to think doilies are normal. Sorry I haven’t written for a few days. Been having a bit of trouble with TOH. I don’t know how much longer I can...phew. You know.

  Anyway. I’ve been thinking about some things. Not sure I should write them, even here.

  Signed, Gertie.

  April 12th 2005

  From shirtypants@onthemove.co.uk

  To gertie5_oldbird@serveright.co.uk

  Subject: Emailing mummy

  Wotcha Mum,

  How the email going? Figure it out yet? ;p

  Your best daughter. x

  To shirtypants@onthemove.co.uk

  From Gertie5_oldbird@serveright.co.uk

  Subject: RE: Emailing Mummy

  I’m glad you called. It’s been difficult. Your father’s been worse. I don’t know what to do with him. Thanks for the call, though. It’s easier to chat on here than on the phone with him listening in. I went to the library today, and when I came back he’d...what am I thinking? You don’t need to know all this. How’s your ‘Bessy’? Is that right? I miss Manda. She’s a lovely girl. Glad you’ve got your friend there. How’s the weather in Oz? Hot, I suppose. Anyway, he’s creating in the other room about the television. I’d better go. I’ll check my ‘E-Mail’ tomorrow.

  Love,

  Your best mum.

  (Call Log Confirmed 18:33 – 18.37)

  Dear Diary,

  Spoke to Charlotte today, all the way from Australia. I’m worried she’s worried about me. I try to shield her from the worst of it, but sometimes little things pop out. I almost told her about her father soiling the kitchen table today. Can you believe that? I stopped, though. Thank God. There are some things your only daughter doesn’t need to know.

  Anyway, Diary, maybe I need a little diazepam, or maybe something stronger. It’s getting to me now. Only natural, but I wish...no. I can’t.

  Signed, Gertie

  April 14th 2005

  Section 2 (2) (a) [...application for admission for assessment may be made in respect of a patient on the grounds that] he is suffering from mental disorder of a nature or degree which warrants the detention of the patient in a hospital for assessment...

  Excerpt from Psychiatrist’s report, Dr. Madsen, RE: Arthur Solomon, to family doctor, Dr. Hunter.

  Dr Hunter,

  [Truncated] Arthur Solomon has been exhibiting symptoms of advanced dementia for the past three months. In response to your query, the rate of progression is unusual, but I am writing to confirm this diagnosis pending further tests to rule out other possibilities.

  Yours sincerely,

  Diana Smith,

  PP. Dr. Jane Madsen

  Dear Diary,

  I haven’t got the energy to write much today. Arthur was out in the garden, fart arsing about. He soiled himself again. I could smell him from the back porch. I couldn’t face changing him again. I swear he does it on purpose.

  Am I going to hell? I just don’t know. I don’t know. All I know is I’m tired, and I’ve had enough. Sometimes I think about ending it all, you know? Me or him. That’s what it comes down to. Spite’ll get you through, alright, but what’s the point in spite when he doesn’t even know how much I’ve come to hate him. He’s like a child now. Nothing I can do to him makes a difference.

  If anything, he’s winning, and he doesn’t even know he’s playing.

  God, I hate this.

  Signed, Gertie

  April 19th 2005

  Postcard from daughter postmarked (inc. Dates)

  In Brisbane from Tuesday. Weather, hot. Guys, hot. Miss you both. Hope you’re coping with Dad. Thanks, love you, miss you. Charlie x

  Section 3 (3) An application for admission for treatment shall be founded on the written

  recommendations in the prescribed form of two registered medical practitioners...

  (Excerpt from Court appointed psychiatrist’s evaluation)

  Mrs. Solomon, admitted (date) for acute psychotic episode. Major beliefs seem to resolve around her husband trying to become her. Clear delusions present, possible hallucinations attendant – she believed her husband was wearing her clothes at the time of the attempted murder. She also claimed her husband was trying to become her. I recommend a section 4 confinement as the patient represents a clear danger to herself and others.

  Section 4 (2) An emergency application may be made either by an [approved mental health

  professional] or by the nearest relative of the patient...

  To shirtypants@onthemove.co.uk

 
; From Gertie5_oldbird@serveright.co.uk

  Subject: RE: Emailing Mummy

  From Dad!

  Sorry Charlie, mummy’s been...committed. I tried to call, but the last hostel said you’d left – you’ve been travelling so much. I found your email on mum’s account. Mail or call if you can. I’m fine, though. No need to rush home. She’ll be OK. I guess mum told you I was losing it *laughs*. No such luck. It’s a shame about your mother, but I think she’ll be OK. She will be. In the best place. Talk to you when I can find you, but DON@T WORRY!!!

  From shirtypants@onthemove.co.uk

  To gertie5_oldbird@serveright.co.uk

  Subject: RE: Emailing mummy

  Dad! I can’t believe it’s you! Oh my God, I had no idea. She said you’d been ill...she’d been making it up? Well, she believed it, anyway. What a relief. It must be hard, with what happened to mum. Are you OK? Oh my god. I can’t believe it. She seemed fine. I’m coming home the next flight I can. I’m in the outback. They have a laptop, but no phone. Love you, see you soon.

  Charlie.

  To shirtypants@onthemove.co.uk

  From Gertie5_oldbird@serveright.co.uk

  Subject: RE: Emailing Mummy

  Charlie,

  Don’t be daft. ‘E-mailing’ me is fine. You and your ‘Bessy’ have a lovely time. There’s nothing you can do here.

  Dad

  From shirtypants@onthemove.co.uk