Our relationship (it certainly hadn’t only been mine) had ended abruptly, for me at
least. I was so deeply into it that I couldn’t see (or ignored) that he wasn’t in so deeply
before he ended it. He seemed more upset than me on the day it happened, which was
strange and didn’t help.
Anyway. I had wanted to get away from everything and be on my own for a bit.
Fortunately my grandparents were about to go on holiday and were happy for me to
housesit. They had asked me and my fellow grandsiblings many times before. This
was the first time I had taken on the role.
My grandparents live in the most beautiful cottage in the Kent countryside. The front
has a sweet little garden bordered by bushes and flower beds that looks across the
village green while the back garden is larger, more ornate and more homey somehow,
probably because it is filled with more memories. It also backs onto fields that stretch
as far as the eye can see. A scene I could stare at all day while forgetting all else-
which is exactly what I was planning for my week in isolation.
My grandmother, of course, was eager to stay, bless her, and look after me. She could
see the sadness in my eyes, despite the brave face I was trying to wear and the smiles
I was forcing my mouth into. She wanted to sit me in an armchair wrapped in a blanket
and pamper me (probably with sweet tea and sticky buns).
She seemed determined, in fact, not to go on her holiday. Much to the annoyance of
my grandfather who is a much more practical person and he was evidently thinking
of the spent money. Plus he could see I wanted to be left alone and joined me in
convincing my grandmother to leave and enjoy her holiday. Which we eventually
managed, though I can remember her the worried expression on her face as she looked
back at me from their car as it drove off and out of the village.
For the first hour I wished they hadn’t left as I wandered the cottage lost, staring blindly
at each room replaying in my mind memories from my childhood and thinking how dead
the house seemed without my grandmother’s presence.
So I found the backdoor key on the ring my grandfather had presented me with and let
myself out into the garden and the view greeted me like an old friend. I fact it stopped
me dead on the back step and I stood in awe looking out across the fields that seemed
to carry on forever before me, each it’s own shade of green or brown. It’s such a
beautiful scene, I wish I could explain it properly, and one that is only halted by the
curvature of the earth. I am sure it would have started to bring feeling to my numb
breast but instead, as I stepped forward into the garden I felt something squidge under
my left big toe.
In a spa I’m sure the feeling would have felt lovely and brought the relaxation I was
seeking, relieving all the tension throughout my body. Here, in this situation, it served
only to heighten it and force it out of said left foot as I instinctively took a leap forward
before looking at the ground with a stomach full of dread.
Lying on the ground was a frog with a newly crushed head. I hoped against hope that
it had already been dead- certainly it looked like it had been gone a while but then how
would I know, this was all new to me. In shock I fell to my knees and buried my head in
my hands, filling the palms with tears.
On top of everything else I couldn’t handle the idea I’d killed an innocent creature. I
also couldn’t handle doing anything with the body and left it just as it was, hoping a cat
would take it.
I then retreated into the house for the afternoon and sat in an armchair wrapped in
the crocheted blanket that was normally draped over it. I then proceeded to stare
into space while turning recent events over in my mind once again until I was hungry
enough to make dinner.
Normally I would have eaten in the garden, or at least the kitchen from where I could
look out across the garden, but instead I returned to the blanket and watched the news,
guiltily hoping something worse was happening elsewhere before switching to Hollyoaks
when a suicide bombing was announced.
By the end of the episode (and my dinner) I was determined to try relaxing in the
beautiful surroundings and went to find a tranquil spot in the garden to find escape
through childhood reminiscences, a good book and Pinot Grigio. So long as I didn’t
look in the direction of the frog I felt all would be fine.
Initially I sat and took in the view while cradling the first glass in my hands and taking
my first sips. Out of the corner of my eyes, though, I could see flies starting to gather
over the frog and I couldn’t relax or enjoy it completely.
Yet I did all I could to put this out of my mind by casting my eyes over the garden and
remembering little stories connected with different items in view. Such as the time
my little brother fell in the pond while trying to retrieve his little Thomas ball, crawling
through the small gap under the hedge so we could explore the field (the gap created by
my mother and her siblings) and watching visitors to the bird table from the kitchen, my
grandparents telling us what each one was. The possibility of seeing wildlife here had
always been one of our favourite things.
Throughout my childhood my grandparents would often tell us about the wildlife they
had seen in their garden (or the evidence they had found). We would hear of different
mammals that had visited or been seen in the fields and about endless types of birds.
We were lucky to get a sparrow in ours- even robins were rare but they had blue tits,
great tits, even a kestrel hovering above one time. And they often heard owls at night.
But not while we were there. We never seemed to see or hear any nearly as much as
we were told about, no doubt scaring everything off with our own wild noises.
Swallows were what we wanted to hear about most, though. I think because we had
all had Swallows and Amazons read to us in the cottage. Each year my grandmother
would officially announce (normally via our mother) that summer had arrived when they
had seen their first flock of swallows pass overhead. And they would also tell us who in
the village had been blessed with swallows’ nests and would therefore gain good luck
that year (often the two things did not actually go together).
However, again, us kids never saw a thing. Even when there was a swallow nest in
their attic we were not allowed to go up and see it and all activity above seemed to halt
during our visit. Iseem to recall it raining incessantly during that visit, stopping us from
being able to watch them come in and out of the house.
For years I had barely visited this house. Throughout my teens and twenties, when me
my sisters had quietened down a little, I had always seen my grandparents elsewhere,
my mother generally visiting alone or when I was busy. This time I was hopeful of
seeing something new. I didn’t care what. I just wanted to see something that might
signal a new start.
It was a beautiful summer’s evening. They always seemed to be here, it had always
been an idyll. The garden faced south and a wonderful red sunset was starting over to
my right and I positioned myself to gain a better view and also to avoid the mass of flies-
seemingly getting larger all the time- that were gathering and growing over the frog’s
corpse.
As the temperature cooled I read and drank, never fully immersing, as the author
seemed to be reflecting my defunct relationship too closely for comfort. I would read
a paragraph or two, or just a few lines or words glancing frequently around the garden
at different spots and remember events of past summers- picnics with teddy bears in
attendance, flower bed tours, treasure hunts, hide and seek, story times…
But my mind and my eye kept going back to that corpse, the head of which I had
crushed with my toe. Crushed like I felt I had probably crushed him and his spirit
by coming out with it too early, no doubt attaching weights that tugged at him until
it became evident he could no longer carry on. I may even have just been his in-
betweener. Maybe that’s why he was so upset that he hadn’t felt it too.
Whatever. My plan didn’t seem to be working at all. I started to think about the old
walks around the area and whether I could try one in the morning when a flash of blue
appeared in the corner of my eye. One that started above me and ended not far above
the dead frog.
I stopped dead and just turned my head. Very. Slowly. And looked at where the flash
had ended then looked up at the sky. Where I saw a bird circling. Then down it came
again, diving until it reached they fly cloud that had formed and plucked, I assume- it
was impossible to see the catch- one for its supper.
It was amazing. My first swallow. And doing something I’d not heard about from my
grandparents. Evidently they had never had the services of a dead frog on their lawn
before.
It was fantastic. I watched as it swooped down again and again, feeding from the
selection available. I watched in disbelief, honoured and humbled by it and a smile
started to form on lips. Inside I still felt like a wreck yet, for the first time in weeks, I felt
like things were going to be alright.
least. I was so deeply into it that I couldn’t see (or ignored) that he wasn’t in so deeply
before he ended it. He seemed more upset than me on the day it happened, which was
strange and didn’t help.
Anyway. I had wanted to get away from everything and be on my own for a bit.
Fortunately my grandparents were about to go on holiday and were happy for me to
housesit. They had asked me and my fellow grandsiblings many times before. This
was the first time I had taken on the role.
My grandparents live in the most beautiful cottage in the Kent countryside. The front
has a sweet little garden bordered by bushes and flower beds that looks across the
village green while the back garden is larger, more ornate and more homey somehow,
probably because it is filled with more memories. It also backs onto fields that stretch
as far as the eye can see. A scene I could stare at all day while forgetting all else-
which is exactly what I was planning for my week in isolation.
My grandmother, of course, was eager to stay, bless her, and look after me. She could
see the sadness in my eyes, despite the brave face I was trying to wear and the smiles
I was forcing my mouth into. She wanted to sit me in an armchair wrapped in a blanket
and pamper me (probably with sweet tea and sticky buns).
She seemed determined, in fact, not to go on her holiday. Much to the annoyance of
my grandfather who is a much more practical person and he was evidently thinking
of the spent money. Plus he could see I wanted to be left alone and joined me in
convincing my grandmother to leave and enjoy her holiday. Which we eventually
managed, though I can remember her the worried expression on her face as she looked
back at me from their car as it drove off and out of the village.
For the first hour I wished they hadn’t left as I wandered the cottage lost, staring blindly
at each room replaying in my mind memories from my childhood and thinking how dead
the house seemed without my grandmother’s presence.
So I found the backdoor key on the ring my grandfather had presented me with and let
myself out into the garden and the view greeted me like an old friend. I fact it stopped
me dead on the back step and I stood in awe looking out across the fields that seemed
to carry on forever before me, each it’s own shade of green or brown. It’s such a
beautiful scene, I wish I could explain it properly, and one that is only halted by the
curvature of the earth. I am sure it would have started to bring feeling to my numb
breast but instead, as I stepped forward into the garden I felt something squidge under
my left big toe.
In a spa I’m sure the feeling would have felt lovely and brought the relaxation I was
seeking, relieving all the tension throughout my body. Here, in this situation, it served
only to heighten it and force it out of said left foot as I instinctively took a leap forward
before looking at the ground with a stomach full of dread.
Lying on the ground was a frog with a newly crushed head. I hoped against hope that
it had already been dead- certainly it looked like it had been gone a while but then how
would I know, this was all new to me. In shock I fell to my knees and buried my head in
my hands, filling the palms with tears.
On top of everything else I couldn’t handle the idea I’d killed an innocent creature. I
also couldn’t handle doing anything with the body and left it just as it was, hoping a cat
would take it.
I then retreated into the house for the afternoon and sat in an armchair wrapped in
the crocheted blanket that was normally draped over it. I then proceeded to stare
into space while turning recent events over in my mind once again until I was hungry
enough to make dinner.
Normally I would have eaten in the garden, or at least the kitchen from where I could
look out across the garden, but instead I returned to the blanket and watched the news,
guiltily hoping something worse was happening elsewhere before switching to Hollyoaks
when a suicide bombing was announced.
By the end of the episode (and my dinner) I was determined to try relaxing in the
beautiful surroundings and went to find a tranquil spot in the garden to find escape
through childhood reminiscences, a good book and Pinot Grigio. So long as I didn’t
look in the direction of the frog I felt all would be fine.
Initially I sat and took in the view while cradling the first glass in my hands and taking
my first sips. Out of the corner of my eyes, though, I could see flies starting to gather
over the frog and I couldn’t relax or enjoy it completely.
Yet I did all I could to put this out of my mind by casting my eyes over the garden and
remembering little stories connected with different items in view. Such as the time
my little brother fell in the pond while trying to retrieve his little Thomas ball, crawling
through the small gap under the hedge so we could explore the field (the gap created by
my mother and her siblings) and watching visitors to the bird table from the kitchen, my
grandparents telling us what each one was. The possibility of seeing wildlife here had
always been one of our favourite things.
Throughout my childhood my grandparents would often tell us about the wildlife they
had seen in their garden (or the evidence they had found). We would hear of different
mammals that had visited or been seen in the fields and about endless types of birds.
We were lucky to get a sparrow in ours- even robins were rare but they had blue tits,
great tits, even a kestrel hovering above one time. And they often heard owls at night.
But not while we were there. We never seemed to see or hear any nearly as much as
we were told about, no doubt scaring everything off with our own wild noises.
Swallows were what we wanted to hear about most, though. I think because we had
all had Swallows and Amazons read to us in the cottage. Each year my grandmother
would officially announce (normally via our mother) that summer had arrived when they
had seen their first flock of swallows pass overhead. And they would also tell us who in
the village had been blessed with swallows’ nests and would therefore gain good luck
that year (often the two things did not actually go together).
However, again, us kids never saw a thing. Even when there was a swallow nest in
their attic we were not allowed to go up and see it and all activity above seemed to halt
during our visit. Iseem to recall it raining incessantly during that visit, stopping us from
being able to watch them come in and out of the house.
For years I had barely visited this house. Throughout my teens and twenties, when me
my sisters had quietened down a little, I had always seen my grandparents elsewhere,
my mother generally visiting alone or when I was busy. This time I was hopeful of
seeing something new. I didn’t care what. I just wanted to see something that might
signal a new start.
It was a beautiful summer’s evening. They always seemed to be here, it had always
been an idyll. The garden faced south and a wonderful red sunset was starting over to
my right and I positioned myself to gain a better view and also to avoid the mass of flies-
seemingly getting larger all the time- that were gathering and growing over the frog’s
corpse.
As the temperature cooled I read and drank, never fully immersing, as the author
seemed to be reflecting my defunct relationship too closely for comfort. I would read
a paragraph or two, or just a few lines or words glancing frequently around the garden
at different spots and remember events of past summers- picnics with teddy bears in
attendance, flower bed tours, treasure hunts, hide and seek, story times…
But my mind and my eye kept going back to that corpse, the head of which I had
crushed with my toe. Crushed like I felt I had probably crushed him and his spirit
by coming out with it too early, no doubt attaching weights that tugged at him until
it became evident he could no longer carry on. I may even have just been his in-
betweener. Maybe that’s why he was so upset that he hadn’t felt it too.
Whatever. My plan didn’t seem to be working at all. I started to think about the old
walks around the area and whether I could try one in the morning when a flash of blue
appeared in the corner of my eye. One that started above me and ended not far above
the dead frog.
I stopped dead and just turned my head. Very. Slowly. And looked at where the flash
had ended then looked up at the sky. Where I saw a bird circling. Then down it came
again, diving until it reached they fly cloud that had formed and plucked, I assume- it
was impossible to see the catch- one for its supper.
It was amazing. My first swallow. And doing something I’d not heard about from my
grandparents. Evidently they had never had the services of a dead frog on their lawn
before.
It was fantastic. I watched as it swooped down again and again, feeding from the
selection available. I watched in disbelief, honoured and humbled by it and a smile
started to form on lips. Inside I still felt like a wreck yet, for the first time in weeks, I felt
like things were going to be alright.
Entered in The Bridport Prize, 2012
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