Soon
by M. W. Harris
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A morning spent in the garden is not all it seems.
_____________________________________________________________________
And the sun on the garden is lovely this morning. The flowers are all like friendly faces beaming up in the heat and light. All the little ol’ drops of water are like splinters from a mirror, glinting back at me. It’s putting some heat into me as well. God’s sake it’ll need to. Always seem to be frozen these days.
Funny how that shower came on so sudden, earlier. Fair set things back. Could have planted that patch out by now. Think I pricked out some cabbages last week that’ll just do that bare spot, near the hedge. Strange, can’t recall clearing that bit at all. Oh well, maybe I’ll get on and do it, soon.
Meantime, I do enjoy the sun. So does that old blackbird. He’s up in the branches of that hawthorn, singing his little ol’ heart out. Doesn’t usually come so close, but then, I’ve been here all this time, he ought to be used to me by now. Had one when I was a kid, used to fly down and eat out of my hand. Been trying to teach the grandchildren to tame one, but it never worked. Don’t know if kids are getting scarier, or if blackbirds are just that bit wiser these days.
Oh look, there’s our Kenny and our Claire, down by the house. Wonder what they’re here for. Seem to be kind of dressed up. And there’s my Bert. He’s got those best slacks on. You just wait ‘til I get down there. The world’s best, so he is, but not a blinking brain-cell. Fancy wearing good slacks like that on a week-day. Oh, he does look old and bent from up here. It’s his heart, you know. Can’t worry all the time, but I do hope he’s not getting hisself too excited, dressed up like that an’ all.
Hope I haven’t forgotten something. Claire said only last week, “Think you’re getting worse, Mum.” I’d just walked into the sitting room, and could I remember what I’d gone in for? I had to walk back into the kitchen and speak to Bert, and then he didn’t know either, ‘cos of course, I’d never told him. Well, all I’d wanted was me reading glasses, to peel the potatoes. Took me five minutes to work it all out. But then, what’s the hurry. It all gets done, sooner or later.
Oh well, I wonder what they want. They’ll be up to see me soon enough I guess. I’ll just bide here a while. Maybe I have forgotten something. There’s our Claire’s man, Brian. Wonder where the kids are? Claire and Kenny look all smartened up. Bet I’m in all kinds of bother if we’re supposed to be going somewhere and I’m up here still in me gardening trousers.
But then, why should I bother. They’ll be up here soon to tell me what’s what, and give me a row, like as not. It’s good here though. Peaceful. Just me and old Blackie, singing his ol’ heart out in the warm sunshine.
You know, that bare patch is worrying me a bit. Over by the hedge. Better have a look at it soon. Hedge is all funny over there too. Think someone must have been cutting it and got rained off or something. All of a sudden it goes wild, up in the corner there. Thought I remembered sorting that bit out last week. Certainly started.
Looks like they’re all coming up the garden now. Hope they’re not coming up here in those smart clothes, wanting me to be ready to go somewhere or do something, because I’m not.
Not that they’ve ever minded me garden. Keeps us all in fresh veggies all summer and autumn. Plenty over to freeze and pickle. Fruit too. Think the birds and I will have some more of those strawberries later on. Must be a good season, those cloches have brought them on nice an’ early. Just enough for the two of us, and an odd one for Blackie and the grand-kids. Maincrop won’t be along ‘til the end of the month, then I’ll share them with the family proper.
Shame that none of the kids ever made real gardeners. Mind our Claire’s youngest, Mathew, he shows some promise. “Just you teach me, Nan,” he says. Bless him, he’s only seven. “Just you let me pick you some strawberries off of them bushes,” but did I get more than one of them, did I ever!
There’s a great gaggle of folk a coming up this garden path. Our Claire, and Kenny, and Claire’s hubby Brian, and Kenny’s Moira and loads of other ones too. And Bert.
I hope it’s not one of those surprise party things. They caught us out last year, at our Ruby wedding. In the Legion Hall it was. “Come to Mathew’s party,” Claire said, and of course, when we got in there, it was all for us. All Bert and I could do was stand there, holding hands like a couple of kids.
They should be careful, doing things like that to their Dad. His ticker isn’t as good as it used to be. No heavy stuff no more, said the Doc. That’s why I was cutting the hedge last week. Terrible bad for a dickey ticker is cutting the hedge.
Last thing I recall much about, really. I always stand on the kitchen chair. Well, you feel much better when you know where your feet are, I always say. I can’t quite be doing with that step ladder.
It was quite like today really. That lovely warm sun. It had been raining. I felt quite sleepy really, kind of floating, the way I am now. These electric hedge trimmers just purr along. Wonder why I never finished?
I also wonder what all of these people are doing in my garden. I know mostly they’re family, but there’s others there too. They’re taking their time if they’re coming looking for me. Maybe I’ll just step into that bit at the corner, behind the shed and round by the compost heap.
Not that I’m hiding mind. It’s just that there’s so many of them, and I’m just in these scruffy old things that I use for cutting the hedge. No one’s shouting for me, maybe they don’t realise I’m here. It could be Wednesday, I’m usually at the Institute on a Wednesday.
Well, I really don’t know what they all think they’re doing, a traipsing up here in their finery. Funny little box thing, I wonder what’s in the box? There’s the Rector an’ all.
God, Bert! There’s Bert, but look at him. Whatever is the matter, soul? You look years old. I must go to him, not worry what they’ll all think of me trousers.
But I can’t. I can’t go while Rector’s speaking, now can I? And then I hear what he’s saying, about dearly departed, in the midst of life and nearer to God’s heart an’ all. Its all the same ol’ clichés, but maybe it’s the familiar words what comfort the best.
So, that’s what it’s all about then.
Oh well, at least the ash will be good for those cabbages. ‘Bout all I’m good for, I guess, except watch me garden.
But I will go to my Bert, right soon, an’ tell him all of what I should of told him before all this happened. ‘Cos I know we’ll be together again.
Just here.
Soon.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A morning spent in the garden is not all it seems.
_____________________________________________________________________
And the sun on the garden is lovely this morning. The flowers are all like friendly faces beaming up in the heat and light. All the little ol’ drops of water are like splinters from a mirror, glinting back at me. It’s putting some heat into me as well. God’s sake it’ll need to. Always seem to be frozen these days.
Funny how that shower came on so sudden, earlier. Fair set things back. Could have planted that patch out by now. Think I pricked out some cabbages last week that’ll just do that bare spot, near the hedge. Strange, can’t recall clearing that bit at all. Oh well, maybe I’ll get on and do it, soon.
Meantime, I do enjoy the sun. So does that old blackbird. He’s up in the branches of that hawthorn, singing his little ol’ heart out. Doesn’t usually come so close, but then, I’ve been here all this time, he ought to be used to me by now. Had one when I was a kid, used to fly down and eat out of my hand. Been trying to teach the grandchildren to tame one, but it never worked. Don’t know if kids are getting scarier, or if blackbirds are just that bit wiser these days.
Oh look, there’s our Kenny and our Claire, down by the house. Wonder what they’re here for. Seem to be kind of dressed up. And there’s my Bert. He’s got those best slacks on. You just wait ‘til I get down there. The world’s best, so he is, but not a blinking brain-cell. Fancy wearing good slacks like that on a week-day. Oh, he does look old and bent from up here. It’s his heart, you know. Can’t worry all the time, but I do hope he’s not getting hisself too excited, dressed up like that an’ all.
Hope I haven’t forgotten something. Claire said only last week, “Think you’re getting worse, Mum.” I’d just walked into the sitting room, and could I remember what I’d gone in for? I had to walk back into the kitchen and speak to Bert, and then he didn’t know either, ‘cos of course, I’d never told him. Well, all I’d wanted was me reading glasses, to peel the potatoes. Took me five minutes to work it all out. But then, what’s the hurry. It all gets done, sooner or later.
Oh well, I wonder what they want. They’ll be up to see me soon enough I guess. I’ll just bide here a while. Maybe I have forgotten something. There’s our Claire’s man, Brian. Wonder where the kids are? Claire and Kenny look all smartened up. Bet I’m in all kinds of bother if we’re supposed to be going somewhere and I’m up here still in me gardening trousers.
But then, why should I bother. They’ll be up here soon to tell me what’s what, and give me a row, like as not. It’s good here though. Peaceful. Just me and old Blackie, singing his ol’ heart out in the warm sunshine.
You know, that bare patch is worrying me a bit. Over by the hedge. Better have a look at it soon. Hedge is all funny over there too. Think someone must have been cutting it and got rained off or something. All of a sudden it goes wild, up in the corner there. Thought I remembered sorting that bit out last week. Certainly started.
Looks like they’re all coming up the garden now. Hope they’re not coming up here in those smart clothes, wanting me to be ready to go somewhere or do something, because I’m not.
Not that they’ve ever minded me garden. Keeps us all in fresh veggies all summer and autumn. Plenty over to freeze and pickle. Fruit too. Think the birds and I will have some more of those strawberries later on. Must be a good season, those cloches have brought them on nice an’ early. Just enough for the two of us, and an odd one for Blackie and the grand-kids. Maincrop won’t be along ‘til the end of the month, then I’ll share them with the family proper.
Shame that none of the kids ever made real gardeners. Mind our Claire’s youngest, Mathew, he shows some promise. “Just you teach me, Nan,” he says. Bless him, he’s only seven. “Just you let me pick you some strawberries off of them bushes,” but did I get more than one of them, did I ever!
There’s a great gaggle of folk a coming up this garden path. Our Claire, and Kenny, and Claire’s hubby Brian, and Kenny’s Moira and loads of other ones too. And Bert.
I hope it’s not one of those surprise party things. They caught us out last year, at our Ruby wedding. In the Legion Hall it was. “Come to Mathew’s party,” Claire said, and of course, when we got in there, it was all for us. All Bert and I could do was stand there, holding hands like a couple of kids.
They should be careful, doing things like that to their Dad. His ticker isn’t as good as it used to be. No heavy stuff no more, said the Doc. That’s why I was cutting the hedge last week. Terrible bad for a dickey ticker is cutting the hedge.
Last thing I recall much about, really. I always stand on the kitchen chair. Well, you feel much better when you know where your feet are, I always say. I can’t quite be doing with that step ladder.
It was quite like today really. That lovely warm sun. It had been raining. I felt quite sleepy really, kind of floating, the way I am now. These electric hedge trimmers just purr along. Wonder why I never finished?
I also wonder what all of these people are doing in my garden. I know mostly they’re family, but there’s others there too. They’re taking their time if they’re coming looking for me. Maybe I’ll just step into that bit at the corner, behind the shed and round by the compost heap.
Not that I’m hiding mind. It’s just that there’s so many of them, and I’m just in these scruffy old things that I use for cutting the hedge. No one’s shouting for me, maybe they don’t realise I’m here. It could be Wednesday, I’m usually at the Institute on a Wednesday.
Well, I really don’t know what they all think they’re doing, a traipsing up here in their finery. Funny little box thing, I wonder what’s in the box? There’s the Rector an’ all.
God, Bert! There’s Bert, but look at him. Whatever is the matter, soul? You look years old. I must go to him, not worry what they’ll all think of me trousers.
But I can’t. I can’t go while Rector’s speaking, now can I? And then I hear what he’s saying, about dearly departed, in the midst of life and nearer to God’s heart an’ all. Its all the same ol’ clichés, but maybe it’s the familiar words what comfort the best.
So, that’s what it’s all about then.
Oh well, at least the ash will be good for those cabbages. ‘Bout all I’m good for, I guess, except watch me garden.
But I will go to my Bert, right soon, an’ tell him all of what I should of told him before all this happened. ‘Cos I know we’ll be together again.
Just here.
Soon.
About the Author
M. W. Harris says she's old enough to know better. Born of mixed Scottish and English parentage in Essex, she's been a resident of Scotland for the last 25 years, currently living on the Firth of Clyde with her long-suffering husband, a teenage daughter and three cats.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.