Garden

By Mark Shemmans

Arthur had no idea what had roused him. A noise? He didn’t think so, his sleep had been deep and he was sure that only a sound as loud as thunder would have woken him. Whatever it was it couldn’t disturb the thoughts in his mind, the thoughts that told him today was a very special day.

It had been a tiring day yesterday - the drive into Birmingham from London, the long walk and the re-exploration of the city he had grown up in, then later helping Keith unload his gear from the Jeep and chatting with the old man over steaming mugs of coffee, reliving past times, chuckling at most of them, until the sun had turned golden and begun to slip away. He supposed the meeting with Keith had contributed to what he was feeling now, that and the accident.

Arthur had had an accident nearly twelve months ago now – a motorbike accident that had nearly taken his life. Now, almost a year later he was grateful to be alive. The near-death experience he’d had made him see life in a different way. Now he appreciated things. Life itself was precious as was nature.

For some reason, it had been a relief to find his uncle had scarcely changed - perhaps it was because he represented a kind of constant in his own changing life. In fact, whenever he looked back on passing years, he always saw Keith as ‘old’, so that now the most that could be said was that his uncle had ‘grown’ into his proper age: his abundant head of hair was overall white rather than a patchy grey as he remembered, his pale blue eyes, a little watery these days, rheumy even, squinting so much more that they were almost slits, and the lines and wrinkles of his face, especially the ‘crow’s feet’ that ran from the corners of his eyes to large, stick-out ears, had deepened, become more established rather than increased; thread-veins splayed his ruddy cheeks and hooked nose, and his thin lips were now a purplish colour with clefts at each side.

Even his uncles clothes appeared to be the same - baggy brown corduroy trousers held up by a thick leather belt, green tweed jacket with patched elbows and cuffs over woolen check shirt, knitted brown tie worn on all occasions, and huge boots although the major items must have worn out over the years to be replaced by exact copies which, due to the nature of his work, must have quickly worn in. Arthur knew that Keith had been married once long ago and that his wife had died before Arthur was born. He knew also that Keith was the last in a long line of family, for he had no children of his own, either male or female, to follow on the name. He also found himself realizing how dissimilar he and his uncle now were, as he was beginning to see the world in a different light.

After Keith had left, he had eaten one of those sad prepackaged dinner-for-ones cooked in the mini-microwave he’d brought up with him, followed by a bath, knees and shoulders well above the waterline in the short tub and, finally, he’d taken the weary climb up the creaking stairs to bed.

If he had needed reminding he was still a convalescent, then the busy day had done the trick. When he’d pulled back the bed sheets he had been almost dead to the world. After taking his routine medication - aspirin to thin his blood, a mild and, by now, probably unnecessary sleeping pill to help him sleep and ease any anxiety he felt (night-time was always bad for stroke victims, for death was always closest when others slept and shadows seemed to beckon the invalid), because he was too exhausted not to sleep. A few seconds after Arthur had turned off the bedside lamp he was slipping into the welcoming arms of sleep.

If he had dreamed, he could not remember, for the sudden awakening had wiped the dreamslate clean. But for some reason he now felt light-headed and different, as if in his slumber he had been given a distinct message.

He regarded the underneath of the four-poster’s sagging canopy, the corner curtains and pelmets restricting his view of some of the room, then lifted his head to glance towards the stone fireplace opposite the end of the bed. There were enough shards of sunlight beaming through the gap in the curtains to tell there was no intruder - unless he was hiding, of course. But although he was tense, he could not feel another’s presence; there was no shift in the atmosphere, no sneaking scuffles.