News from Gardenia

by Robert Llewellyn

  In the hustle of people moving chairs and arranging plates and cutlery on the long table, I was left alone. The old lady Marga hugged an equally old lady and they sat down together. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I didn’t exactly feel unwelcome but then no one seemed the least bit surprised by my presence.

  I stood next to an enormous old dresser covered in decorative plates and unusual-looking bottles, leaned back and relaxed a bit. It was good to have the time to just look around and have a good old stare at them all. There was so much to look at, so much to learn. I could now see that behind a long counter was a fairly large kitchen area with an incredibly ancient old bloke in a white apron holding a big ladle.

  Right in front of me a young woman picked up a small toddler and placed him in a high chair next to the table. Another old bloke with a long beard placed a bowl of steaming food in front of the child, then the kid picked up a small wooden spoon and started to feed himself. I watched with fascination the speed at which this old bloke moved; he flitted. You expected a shuffle – he looked a hundred years old – but he darted about like a teenage girl.

  ‘I realise this must be a little confusing. It’s always very busy at this time of day,’ said William, who I now noticed had been standing beside me all the time.

  ‘Do all these people live here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said William.

  ‘Is it, like, a religious community?’

  ‘A religious community?’ William repeated slowly. ‘Goodness me, what makes you think that?’

  I smiled back at him. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘A large group of people all living and eating together – I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s meal time; we live here.’

  ‘Oh, I see, is this, well, a commune then?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, we are a community, I suppose. It’s just called a hall if we call it anything.’

  ‘But are some of the people here your, well, your blood relatives, your family?’

  ‘My son is over there,’ said William, gesturing to a group of people talking away merrily on the other side of a long table. I couldn’t pick out which particular man he meant but everyone in the group looked to be fairly old.

  ‘My sister is over there,’ he continued, pointing to the other end of the table. Here I saw a large group of much older women, slender and elegant but clearly engaged in some fairly raucous laughter.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to everyone. Don’t be alarmed, they are all very friendly.’ He picked up a spoon and a rustic metal jug and rattled the two together.

  ‘I am sorry to interrupt your pleasure, everyone.’ The noise level dropped a little and most of the people in the room glanced towards us. ‘But we have a guest at our table this evening.’

  I felt the attention of the entire room suddenly and it’s fair to say I didn’t like it. Move along now, nothing to see here.

  ‘His name is Gavin and he’s come down from Enstone in a flying machine.’

  There were gasps from the crowd; some of the people looked mildly concerned. I smiled, probably badly so I ended up looking a little demented. I wanted to reassure them that I was fine and not a threat.

  ‘I would ask that we all behave gently with Gavin; he’s had a confusing and tiring day. If it’s okay with you, Roger, I suggest he rests in the end room of the long barn.’

  ‘No problem,’ said a very tall gangly man who was standing at the far end of the room. I noticed that the man was very tall. I then realised that everyone I’d met, except for Marga, was rather taller than normal. I also noticed at that point that no one was in the least overweight. In fact, they all looked rather gaunt.

  I smiled as best I could and followed William to the far end of the nearest table, where I was shown a seat. The man with the long white beard placed a steaming bowl of what looked like some kind of Mediterranean vegetable dish on the table in front of me.

  ‘Welcome, friend,’ he said with a soft smile.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The old man then poured what looked like wine into a glass for me. William took a seat next to me and was similarly served with food.

  Until I sat in front of this bowl of food, I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. When the smell of it hit my nostrils I was surprised at how ravenous I had become. As soon as I tried some I was equally delighted by the taste; it was utterly delicious. I nodded as I chewed.

  ‘I take it the food meets with your approval.’

  ‘It’s bloody amazing,’ I said. ‘I’ve never had anything like it. What on earth is it?’

  William gave a little smile. ‘It’s just a vegetable conglomeration,’ he said. ‘Nothing special.’

  I shook my head and took another forkful. ‘Believe me, where I come from, this is something special.’

  As I continued to eat, I took the opportunity to stare at the people around the table, all of whom it seemed were stealing inquisitive glances back at me. When I smiled they smiled back.

  I was starting to notice things I hadn’t seen when I first entered the room; it was as if I was waking up from a hangover or a blow to the head.

  I considered that maybe that was what was happening. Maybe I really had been in a plane crash but had survived with some sort of head injury and this was my way of finding my path back to consciousness.

  It just wasn’t quite real. I would classify the clothing some of the diners were wearing as slightly hippyish, but then some others were quite smartly dressed.

  On closer and more detailed inspection I realised the cut and styling of the cloth was something I didn’t recognise. Sort of Middle Eastern, but not in any way stern or religious. However, this was such a layman’s assessment – I know less than nothing about clothes.

  The old man who had given me the bowl of food was wearing classic bib and brace denim work clothes, worn and carefully patched. In fact, all the clothes looked old but well cared for.

  A man sitting opposite me on the long table leant forward. He looked a little older than me, but not much – it was really hard to tell. His hands were large and capable looking.

  ‘What type of flying machine have you been in?’ he asked. ‘I’ve seen some in a museum, quite extraordinary technology.’

  ‘It’s a Yuneec e430,’ I said. ‘Electrically powered.’

  ‘So, early twenty-first century.’

  ‘Yes, 2011.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Have you really never been in a plane?’ I asked, hoping I wasn’t being offensive.

  The man shrugged and shook his head. ‘I’ve podded about, but never in a winged craft,’ he said. ‘I quite fancy having a go.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said a rosy-cheeked woman sitting beside him. She was smiling and she punched the man’s upper arm playfully. ‘I’m not standing on the ground watching you go to your doom in some fancy-pants flying contraption, young man.’

  The man grinned at her and looked back at me. ‘It’s not likely though.’

  I nodded, took a sip of what was evidently crisp apple juice in the glass before me, again raising my eyebrows because it was so delicious.

  ‘I’m fascinated about how this all works,’ I said, making a small gesture around the room with my fork. ‘I mean all of you here, living together.’

  ‘How should we live?’ asked the woman with the rosy cheeks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How long have you been here? I mean, this isn’t just a kind of holiday thing?’

  ‘I was born here,’ said the man. ‘I met Celine when I travelled south, I stayed with her family for a few years and then we moved back here four years ago.’

  ‘Five years ago,’ said Celine.

  The man glanced at her. ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes, dearest.’ She sighed as if deal
ing with an infant. ‘Harold is six, remember? He’s your son. He was born with my lot, but we moved here when he was young.’

  The man raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘I think my brain has turned to useless mush since I fathered my son.’

  ‘And where are you from?’ I asked Celine.

  ‘Winchester,’ she said. I nodded and continued eating. So that was down south. I supposed it was, although for some reason when he said down south I was imagining Spain or North Africa. She looked sort of North African, but then most of the people in the room had very olive skin; there were certainly no blonde people in the room.

  William leant towards me. ‘I think what will help you is to speak with Paula, the woman at the far end of the table.’

  I looked at the heavyset woman William was nodding toward; she was reading a large book as she ate. She was big boned – I think that’s the kindest way of describing her. She wasn’t fat by any means, but she was a solid-looking lass.

  ‘Is that who you were talking about earlier?’

  ‘Indeed, Marga’s youngest daughter. She is very well read and knows a great deal of history. I hesitate to describe to you the events that have taken place since, well, since your era. I get my dates confused and that won’t help you at all. I will talk with her in the morning and see if she is willing. She has, well, I don’t quite know how to put it…a slightly unusual manner.’

  I nodded. Out of all the people around the table, she certainly stood out, not having the same lean look as everyone else.

  The old man cleared away the empty bowls and soon returned with large baskets of fruit. Plums, oranges, apples, bananas, peaches, all large and very fresh looking.

  ‘Please help yourself,’ he said as he placed a basket before William and me.

  ‘These are all grown here,’ said William.

  ‘Are they?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Indeed, we have large glass houses to the east of the house, we grow a great deal of produce in them year round.’

  I bit into a ripe plum. It was so full of flavour I couldn’t speak for a moment.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said, plum juice running down my chin.

  ‘Although of course we have plum trees in the outdoor orchards too, they won’t be ready for harvest for a few months yet.’

  I nodded and took another plum. There was no question: I had never eaten fruit this fresh or delicious. Never.

  ‘The old man with the beard,’ I said, ‘does he do all the cooking too?’

  ‘Oh no, that is Bal – he likes to serve, although he’s not as quick as he was in his youth.’

  ‘He seems pretty fast on his feet to me. How old is he?’

  William had to think for a minute. ‘Bal, he’s, well, he must be a hundred and thirty I think. I’ll ask him.’

  I chewed with my mouth open. One hundred and thirty – that was simply not possible. The old man was so energetic, still on his feet serving people and carrying piles of empty bowls to the large kitchen units at the far end of the room.

  ‘There are so many questions buzzing around my head,’ I said. ‘How can anyone live to be a hundred and thirty years old?’

  ‘I agree it is very old. Not everyone is so lucky, but there are people living who are older than Bal. I believe there is a gentleman in Italy who recently had his one hundred and fiftieth birthday.’

  I shook my head and toyed with taking another plum but I didn’t want to appear greedy.

  ‘So tell me as briefly as you can,’ I asked. ‘You all live here, in one big house. Is that common?’

  ‘Do you mean does everyone live together like we do? If so, certainly not, not everyone would choose to live like this, I would guess, and I have no figures to back this up but plenty of experience. I would suppose that maybe half the people in the land live in halls like this. There are some people who choose to live alone, some families who only live with their immediate relatives and they generally occupy smaller houses. We are always changing the houses we live in; we have rendered many thousands of older houses.’

  ‘Rendered?’

  ‘Yes, we have adapted much of what we inherited from, I suppose, from your time and even older. We have effectively thinned out the large urban areas, reduced the density of houses, and sometimes, if the buildings are of interest historically, we have moved them apart.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well,’ said William, pushing his chair back and adjusting his sitting position, ‘there were many old rows of houses, all joined together.’

  ‘Terraces,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed, a terrace of houses. Well, this became very inconvenient, so quite often we would renovate one house and remove the two neighbouring houses in the terrace, creating a garden area between the remaining houses. This would also allow us to re-engineer the house, install sufficient insulation and support systems, rainwater capture, ground heating, composting facilities and such like. It was simply not possible to do that when they were all crammed together.’

  ‘I noticed this house had a peculiar grey finish on the walls and roof.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, you wouldn’t know what that is. It’s a carbon composite covering, very common now. We’ve been using that for over a hundred years. Bal is probably the only person here who can remember houses without it.’

  ‘What’s it for?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, protection, insulation mainly, and it strengthens the older structures like this house, but I’m afraid we don’t know how long it lasts because we haven’t been using it long enough. I think the idea was that it would stand firm for many hundreds of years.’

  I shook my head in wonderment. ‘Carbon composite.’

  ‘You have heard of this? I didn’t think it was around in your era.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of it, but I sort of understand what it might be. But isn’t it a very expensive material?’

  William nodded, saying nothing, as if I had just mentioned something no one spoke of, almost a taboo.

  ‘May I ask why you are reticent to talk of the cost?’ I asked.

  William smiled. ‘I suppose I don’t wish to burden you with too much information on your first day here. There is so much for you to learn and I don’t want your mind racing with questions and keeping you awake all night.’

  Now it was my turn to smile. I did feel utterly knackered. The noise in the kitchen was intense: so many people talking and the clattering of dishes, the clouds of steam coming from beyond a crowd of people in the food preparation area.

  A gentle wave of nausea overtook me, I felt a little dizzy, I took a deep breath to try and regain my composure. It was almost like taking a sudden dive in a plane, I felt my stomach turn over, the shock of what was happening to me was almost too much to comprehend.

  ‘I think you might be right,’ I said, hoping that talking would quell the disquiet. ‘I’m half expecting to wake up in my own home, with my wife, in my house. Maybe with a bandage on my head and an explanation for this absurd dream I’m having.’

  William stood up and looked down at me with a slightly concerned expression.

  ‘It’s not a dream, Gavin. I almost wish it were, but I fear that is not the case. You really are here.’

  7

  I woke up in a beautiful room. my eyes opened and I lay on my back for a moment just staring upwards. Was I alive? Was this heaven? Was I still dreaming?

  It all seemed very real – the bed felt like a bed, the air was cool and smelled delightful.

  I turned my head slowly, taking in the room. It was gentle and reassuring, nothing bizarre or threatening anywhere I could see.

  The building I was in was obviously old, a converted barn maybe. I could barely remember it from the night before. The events of the previous day slowly re-emerged. When I had finally been sh
own across the courtyard beside the old house, a very tall man led the way; it was dark and I was exhausted.

  Above me large oak beams supported a huge vaulted ceiling, heavy drapes covered the small windows, and there were wide polished boards on the floor. Beth would have loved it.

  It was a new experience for me to wake up and not be sure where I was. Even though I have travelled a great deal, spent time in many different countries, I had never before woken in a place and not been quite sure where I was. I suppose I’d led an orderly and predictable life up until the point I flew into the cloud. Now it seemed new and disturbing experiences rained on me without falter.

  The walls were panelled in some kind of old pine. Even the smell in the room was unusual, not unpleasant and it did remind me of something, like a lost history, like a reassuring smell of calm and contentment. I guessed it was some sort of herb smell or some kind of polish. I sniffed deeply; whatever it was it smelled good and clean.

  I lay motionless in bed, trying to remember everything that had happened. There was still a background feeling of anxiety because I’d let so many people down without so much as a text. I should have contacted the company I was due to visit in Basingstoke, I should have rung Beth, I should have done so many things. Surely people would be worried about me.

  Unless. I rolled over in the large comfortable bed. Unless what I had been told was really true. If it was really true, everyone I had ever known, Beth, my mum and dad, my brother Timothy, my nephew Jack and his mum Louise, they were all long dead.

  I felt slightly nauseous and sat up, trying to remain calm. It was nonsense – there had to be another explanation.

  I climbed out of bed and could sense by the light coming around the curtain that it wasn’t very early. I found my phone, which said 8:30a.m. The battery was still full, even though I hadn’t recharged it. There was still no signal. There was no 3G, no Wi-Fi, nothing.

  I stood on the bed and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful May morning, the sun already high, the sky clear. Through the trees that were close to the building I was in I could see a small field, a school playing field maybe as there were numerous children running about – some suddenly stopped and spun around on the spot, others ran around them in circles before dashing off in another direction. It all seemed so normal, and yet at the same time it made no sense.