A few days later, I heard that Kevin's young owner had found his wandering kitten. My mother passed on a message she could never begin to understand when she said that the little boy from the farm had heard Kevin singing outside the back door early one morning. She had no time to notice my relieved smile as she gathered an armful of papers from the table and rushed towards the door. That was the last time it happened, and Kevin joined the rabbit and mouse in that swirling mist of half-remembered reality, however hard I tried to hold on to the sharpness of his sprouting. Other burials were necessary from time to time, but the earth always stayed firm and flat after those.
I left university and disappointed both my parents by delaying the start of my career and doing more gardening with Cobb. I became his full-time helper. I couldn't let go of the rhythm he had set in me all those years ago. I had vague plans to start a proper job at some stage, in some future I could never quite see with any real clarity. I felt at home in the garden, growing and tending things.
‘Always said you were a natural, boy,’ Cobb would say from time to time. Perhaps he was right.
My sense of coming home took on a permanent solidity, and the increased absence of my parents from the house brought me a deeper feeling of peace and belonging. I had no desire to leave. Cycles of change unfurled continually within the garden. After my childhood of being sent away, I had finally taken root here. The small allowance from my parents was adequate for the simple life I enjoyed. The boxed sets under my bed had long gone – I had taken them to the local charity shop, where they looked strangely old fashioned yet new and unused. Like Cobb, I needed few possessions. My biggest luxury was gardening books. Old ones, that I found in junk shops or at the auction rooms – filled with the smell of stored fruit, sweetly decaying leaves, and marked by the earthy fingerprints of past gardeners who had also left their marks on the landscape. I loved those old books just for the feel of them, the weight and the smell of them. They were the written version of Cobb's old jacket; ingrained with the realness of what he did, used again and again for the same purpose until it absorbed something of the man and the activity. Seeing the jacket would always bring an image of Cobb in the garden. They were inseparable associations.
It was like that when I found Cobb dead in his cottage. His jacket hung on the back of the kitchen door just like it always did. Although it was early, Cobb should have been wearing the jacket by then, should have been opening the greenhouse windows with his slow, winding movements. I didn't call his name because somehow I knew Cobb would not answer, and the silent reply would be too loud for me to ignore.
My gentle push opened his sitting-room door just enough to reveal a quiet Cobb, with a pile of seed catalogues on one arm of his big old armchair. His head was tipped forward onto his chest, and still covered by his stained, battered hat. Tufts of hair fuzzed out at the sides with the same springy determination. His boots were shiny and clean. His hands still looked strong. But Cobb was dead. I knew he was dead. The frost of death had got him in the night, had left him unmoved but altered, stopped, his life force quick-frozen. I stroked his shoulder just as he’d stroked mine when I was a boy, took the cold enamel mug of tea from the other arm of the chair, and picked up two catalogues that had fallen to the floor. I closed the door quietly and sat for a long time on the bench in Cobb's little cottage garden.
I waited until the sky lost its light, until a flat, grey dimness settled over the garden. Then I took Cobb's spade from the shed and began digging. It was a warm night and I felt my shirt cling to my damp body as I heaped shifting soil into a mound, and breathed in the wet underground smells released into the night air. The earth seemed alive – constantly moving and crumbling as tiny grains sifted through spaces, yet the heap I was creating looked dark and solid. I tried not to think of that weight covering Cobb as I laid him gently in the prepared bed. I pulled the earth in around him with my hands; using the tenderness he had taught me. Then I went back to his cottage and sat at the kitchen table until weak orange threads of daytime crept through the pewter sky.
After that, I got on with the routine. I worked hard and finished all the jobs, Cobb’s and mine, before stopping for supper and then a deep, dreamless sleep. I started the watering on the second day. It just fell into the pattern and I made it part of the daily rounds in the garden. Each morning, I called into Cobb's cottage and made toast and marmalade, and had two mugs of tea, before I started the routine. I left his jacket on the back of the kitchen door, and hung his old hat above it. Ready for him. The rest of Cobb's cottage remained as it was. I never went back into the sitting-room, and the upstairs rooms stayed as private as they always had been. I put crusts from the toast on Cobb's bird table every day, and drew a pencil line through the date on the calendar hanging on the pantry door.
Sometimes Kevin would wander into the garden, and once he put his head round Cobb's kitchen door. He had grown into a long-legged, elegant cat with a sleek black coat. He was serious and watchful, and liked to sit with hunched shoulders, on the corner of the compost heap, staring at the rustling leaves and clouds of small flies. Occasionally, the kitten would burst through Kevin's sombre personality, and he would dive with splayed feet into the middle of the compost, his eyes sparking with that green glint of mischief. Or he would suddenly find himself at the top of a miniature apple tree, ears back and claws extended in wild playfulness, overtaken by some cat spirit that swept him off in a mad frenzy before he composed himself enough to make a graceful though slightly embarrassed descent. When he appeared at Cobb's door, Kevin sat down on the threshold and looked thoughtfully in my direction, though would not make eye contact. He began his ritual of careful washing, his ears flipping back to upright triangles after each polishing paw stroke. When I looked up again from the kitchen table, Kevin had gone. I knew he would come again, as he had over the years. He was aloof but friendly, and always disappeared as suddenly as he’d arrived.
I put a line through the red number on Cobb's calendar this morning – the fifteenth day – and went to check the ground for signs. There was a small swelling on the grave, with the beginning of a crack in the surface, like a thick piecrust over chunks of apple. Twice since then, I’ve been with the watering can and lightly sprinkled the ground to keep it moist. This evening, I sat for a while and smiled to myself as fuzzy white tufts shivered in a slight breeze. I didn't realise for a long time that I was looking at the soft, plump bulb of Cobb's earlobe. Like a newly formed soft fruit, it lay pink and tender just visible on the warm surface of the earth. I left then, still smiling, and gave Cobb the privacy I knew he would want. Then I came back here to his cottage, to make a bread pudding. And later, I’ll make two mugs of strong tea
* Wings *
My arrival, just after sunset, was met with a welcome full of promise. I was invited over the threshold and into the heart of this family. Six sturdy, country people, each of whom seemed eager to tend to the needs of a lone traveller such as myself.
I settled my few belongings in the clean sleeping quarters they provided for me, and later, accepted their invitation to rest in a small room filled with simple but comfortable furniture. Seated before a large mirror, I refused to reflect upon the struggles of my journey, and instead observed the comings and goings of the household. The room gave onto a hall, and I was able to watch each member of the family pass the doorway, while they showed no awareness of my still presence.
The innkeeper’s wife was a handsome, elegant woman, and her two daughters were fortunate to have pulsing through their veins the sweet, fresh beauty passed to them by the bloodline of inheritance. The skin of all three women was of a shimmering paleness and had a translucent quality that pierced my senses. The moon could not equal their silvery white beauty. Mother and daughters appeared to glow as they passed back and forth on their errands and domestic preparations for the evening's meal. All held their heads high and had a noble air in the transport of their fair and healthy bodies. Strong yet delicate backs gave support to these f
ine, proud female heads, beneath which were swans’ necks of such unblemished purity and fragile vulnerability. My eyes were drawn again and again to these creamy-skinned creatures as they glided past carrying linens or trays from the kitchen.
Heavier feet followed and I was watcher now of a dense and solid animal. This was the youngest son, who had just returned to the home from chopping wood. He leaned an axe against the wall – the slice of its blade hidden from my view. An earthy, moist and ripe odour trailed along the hall as he passed the open door. This young creature aroused my acute sense of smell to the aroma of strength and hard-working energy. He was, of course, rough where his sisters were made of smooth stuff, and yet he had some of his mother’s noble bones to carry his muscular, healthy body. His father and brother passed then, also carrying the tools from their day’s work. I caught only a glimpse as they turned a corner at the end of the hall – wide shoulders and upright stature seemed common features.
These curling wafts of living flesh mingled with that of the dead, roasting meat coming from the oven. My hunger, although tempered, did not subside. I concealed my growing anticipation beneath the marble-like weight of formality and manners. No stranger at the moonlit window could guess at my hot desire for the sustenance awaiting me.
The meal was laid out in warm splendour, and I was honoured with the duty of serving. As I accepted with grace, my hosts seemed to relax, and all become less restrained in their conversation. Mention was made, with only mild attempts at humour, that this region was seldom visited by travelling gentlemen. My visit was therefore, they assured me, a rare pleasure for this humble household. When I enquired of the reason, there was a moment of silence before anyone spoke. Glances were exchanged between them, and then once again, they relaxed under my gaze. As the father cleared his throat to explain, I took note of the daughter nearest me, who made an eager grasp for her sister’s hand on the table’s covered surface. The smooth bones of their knuckles pressed against their white skin as they listened to their father’s solemn voice.
There had long been, he said, the existence of many tales and rumours in these remote and sparsely populated parts. He lowered his voice and continued. There was talk, he said, of creatures that would feed off any travellers daring to come this way. He shook his head as if to clear it and forced a smile to lift his full lips. He patted the back of his wife’s hand and went on. They, he said, being good, honest, hard-working folk had nothing but scorn on such tales. He produced a laugh that sounded as dry as dead twigs snapped underfoot, and I knew this was his effort to provide peace of mind for his family. And for himself. He finished by adding, perhaps from superstitious insurance, that although they gave no credence to rumours, they could not afford to take chances, lest grains of truth were among these ancient legends.
Making no outward show of my alarm, I began to conjure a hasty distraction. Nourishment was now an urgent need for me, and the delay of it had sharpened my will to act swiftly. I ran blade against blade as I prepared to dissect the lifeless creatures on the plate before me. I was aware of the thick, cloying smell that seemed to fill the back of my throat as heat was released by the cold metal of the knives. Closely watched by the twelve life-filled eyes, I divided the small birds unequally between us. I took great satisfaction from the politely masked surprise at my unfair distribution. On my own plate, a greasy pile of wings and breast gave off its sickening aroma, while the plates in front of each of the disappointed family contained the remaining scraps of pigeon, spread too meanly among these six vital beings.
Their surprise at my apparent greed was balanced by the creation of an atmosphere filled with social ease and exchanges. My wit and flattery diverted attention from my untouched plate. It is only now, as I make my replete departure, that I recount to myself the subtleties and pleasures of the night's feast. I savoured the different textures of flesh as my teeth made each first, sharp penetration; the crack of bones in those graceful necks as I disconnected consciousness, though not life. And the consistency of their blood – such variety within one family. Some thin and free flowing, while in others it was darkly glutinous, and required strenuous retrieval.
Not one of those gathered round that table had a moment for reflection or resistance. My driving greed lent me the speed of wings. Their rich, abundant offerings, although necessary to my survival, were more to me than mere nourishment, and I received every morsel with a good deal of pleasure. The unintentional generosity of their unintended last supper has filled me with new life to continue my perpetual journeys through the night.
* The Cobbler *
Ronnie got over his breakdown really well. He was back at his shop within the year, and business was booming. All his regular customers came in to welcome him back. To his great relief, nobody mentioned his spell in hospital, or his Mother passing on.
Just before they let him leave the hospital that looked like a huge country mansion, Ronnie had been called to the doctor’s office. At the end of a long, narrow corridor, Ronnie waited outside the doctor’s door and stared down at his slippers.He could hear muffled voices. Eventually a young woman came out and shuffled past Ronnie in slow motion. She was smiling. Ronnie had seen her before, wandering the communal rooms and corridors. She always smiled but never looked at anyone. Ronnie sat opposite the doctor who was looking through a file on his desk.He told Ronnie to view his return home as a new phase in his life – an opportunity to do things his way after the rigid routine his Mother had set for them both to live by. Ronnie should be strong and positive, the doctor said, about the sudden freedom brought about by his Mother’s departure. It had been the first time Ronnie had spent any time away from home, and everything had felt strange without Mum, but he knew the doctor must be right. He was determined to make a new start on his own.
His little shop was in a good spot, near the petrol station – just right for people on their way to work. They stopped for petrol, newspapers and sandwiches. Why they didn’t make their own sandwiches, Ronnie couldn’t say. His Mother would have disapproved. Still, it meant that he got the custom when they popped their shoes in before rushing off to join the traffic. Later, there was the drop-in trade of women shoppers who brought children's shoes for re-heeling and new buckles. The village was well-shod thanks to Ronnie. He liked working near the busy main road, seeing all the cars go rushing off in both directions. Glad I’m stopped here though, he thought. Happy staying put, I am.
He lived away from the road and the sound of traffic. Ronnie’s house was set back from the lane that led to the pig field. There were no streetlights or pavements. The other houses on the lane were similarly hidden from view. Whenever an occasional stranger turned into the lane by mistake, they assumed it was uninhabited. The entrance to Ronnie’s house was easy to miss, being overgrown and just like all the others, with no house name or number. There was no need. Everyone knew where Ronnie lived. He knew where everyone else lived, always had. Once through the overhanging trees, their trunks thickened by densely plaited ivy into the shape of inverted cones, the house came into view. It was a wide-fronted, flint building with small windows and a red tiled roof. Surrounded by rambling, tilted outbuildings and a shed made entirely of old doors, the house looked abandoned. The windows were dusty, the paint faded. The house had declined since his Mother’s death but Ronnie intended to get it straight again. First, he needed to concentrate on keeping his customers happy after his time away.
With Ronnie being the only cobbler for miles, he serviced all the footwear in the bustling community, and began to think seriously about expansion. Plans constructed themselves in his head for a second branch of Toe Caps. Nothing else demanded his time or commitment now, and Ronnie felt ready to dedicate himself fully to the work he loved. Bending and gluing leather, or hammering tacks into eroded heels gave him a deep sense of satisfaction and pride. As customers collected their tenderly mended, polished shoes from his orderly shop, Ronnie felt important; felt that he was doing his bit for the community. There’d be no f
lapping soles or downtrodden heels while Ronnie was in control of things.
Cars speeding by could not know the service Ronnie provided to his loyal customers. Drivers would see the petrol station, the Post Office and Ronnie’s shop but wouldn’t guess at the interwoven yet distanced lives behind the road. Like patches sewn into a quilt, the small cluster of houses were forever linked to each other while remaining contained inside their own boundaries. Not a close community, there was nevertheless a dependency between the long-term residents. Each had their role in the ticking of village time, the oiling of village cogs. Logs were chopped for those who could no longer manage, apples were picked, jams made and tools borrowed. There was no particular kindness in this give and take arrangement, but rather the necessity of favours. There was a dependency on and an expectation of repayment for good turns. If there was a missing patch in the quilt, that hole would let in the cold. Most people knew this and cooperated accordingly. Ronnie’s Mother had lived in the draught.
Grave Misgivings Page 6