The Wildness of Our Dreams
by Garry Stanton
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A bored suburbanite encounters something unusual in his garden...
_____________________________________________________________________
Alan Pritchard sat at his kitchen table, round, light pine, toast, crumbs, coffee. Alan gulped down the last of his orange juice and hurriedly kissed Marie, his wife, who was sporting now a decent six-month bump. His 14 year-old daughter, Phoebe, was running around the house, squealing that she couldn't locate her schoolbag. Alan shouted a goodbye to everyone, ran to his car and within twenty minutes was at the office, sitting at his desk.
He was, like millions of others in the developed world, a middle-manager. He was the superior of twelve employees, subordinate to many others. Some in their branch of Grow-co plc liked him; others felt he was getting too big for his boots; others in the office barely acknowledged his existence. Alan was willing to recognise that his life was, compared to the existence of some, boring. Steady. Predictable. His self-awareness, though perhaps limited in some respects, did allow him to acknowledge that his life was rather less than exciting. On days like that Thursday, quiet and downtime, he was able to indulge in a little self-reflection.
However, Alan's life, those brief breathing moments, was not always so dull. As a young man of nineteen, he had been tipped for great things. Well, maybe not great, but at least good. His uncle Ted had been a minor driver on the Formula One tour back in the sixties, and he recognised in Alan similar skill, ease with speed, abnormal reflexes which set good drivers apart from the competent ones. Alan was fast, keen, streamlined, and talented. Ted always said his nephew was much more talented than he himself was in his pomp. Which wasn't all that pompy, Ted used to joke.
Alan had been allowed to test himself at the Silverstone track, using Ted's contacts. He had impressed many, and had begun to entertain dreams of big money, Bugattis and supermodels.
Then Alan had met Marie. It was comfortable from the start, and within a few months she was pregnant with Phoebe. She had been willing to put up with his driving at the start but then she had begun to build a brick wall called responsibility. Alan, unable to scale it or get round it, simply gave in, and, following an 'in' provided by his father-in-law Gerald, had gone to work for Grow-co. He recalled the glint in Marie's eyes when she had put her arms around him and exclaimed – you're a middle-manager now! He smiled at the thought but was not sure if he felt happy or sad at the memory.
And here he was still, fifteen years later. The archetypal middle-manager, tolerated by some, disliked by others, ignored by many. Marking time with promotions, sackings, meetings about when to hold the next meeting....
He wondered whether he still held the dream. Inside. He did, but was, at thirty-four, much too old. This made him sad. Maybe there were other dreams. The phone rang. A customer had a complaint. Alan set the audible affability in place and dealt with it.
At shortly after eleven in the morning he began to be hit by waves of nausea. Then, it rose and became the worse migraine headache he had had for years. Alan was one of those employees who was never sick. He was reliable, steady, at all times and in all things.
Still, on that Thursday morning Alan went home with the express permission of Mr Gorham and was sitting with a camomile tea by midday. The house was empty – Phoebe was, of course, at school and he seemed to recall Marie was meeting an old school friend. Alan was glad, and carried his tea from the kitchen to the living room, where he removed his shoes and lay back on the soft sofa. Placing his World's Best Dad mug on the coffee table, he lay back and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and he popped a couple of Paracetamols. The drive home had been difficult but he found himself relishing the fact that he would be, as they say, home alone.
All he could hear was nothing at all. Everyone was at work. A Sunday morning was noisier here in management land, where lawn mowers came to life, gardens were sprayed, and cars were lovingly sponged and polished.
The silence was interrupted briefly by the sound of a taxi stopping at the end of the street, brakes characteristically squealing. Alan heard a door slam and the sound of footsteps. They were not leading to his house – why would they? – and he once again put his aching head to the soft cushion. Across the room their cat slept soundly, sprawling across the armchair, oblivious to his arrival.
He must have dozed off because the clock, ticking loudly but unheard, now showed one fifty-five. Almost two hours! He hoped that his clerical assistant Graham had followed up that call from the irate customer....
The cat had left the comfort of the armchair and could be heard crunching biscuits in the kitchen. Alan realised that his head felt better and got up to look in the garden. The grass needed a final cut before winter set in, the place needed a good weeding, and that gap in the privet hedge seemed to be getting bigger. It was, in truth, something of an eyesore. He just hadn't had the time to do anything lately. Anything but work.
Alan decided he would take advantage of this unexpected free time. The sun was shining now, it was still fairly warm for October, and he was feeling better now. Much better.
Alan stood outside, in his old shoes. Old corduroy trousers. Old checked shirt. He felt like it was Sunday. Only the church bells were absent.
Then, a sound. A grunt? A smell, a warm aroma of wildness, just there, passing on the brown breeze. It was coming from the green area beyond the hedge, beyond the gap in the hedge he should have fixed years ago. How do you fix a hole in a hedge anyway? Do you fill it with more hedge, imported hedge from elsewhere, from another hedge? Do you just cut the whole thing down and start again? These were the mainly vacant, absent thoughts which floated around at the edge of Alan Pritchard's mind as he saw it. It came through the gap. The smell grew more pungent, more palpable. Then, the reality of it was there, twenty feet away. A fully grown lion.
An African lion, Alan thought. They are bigger than Indian ones and there are hardly any of those left. How do you fill a hedge gap and why did I not do it? I wish I had...
The great cat stopped just inside the garden, lifted its maned head and sniffed imperiously. It seemed to be appraising the state of the garden. The lion did not look impressed. Then, it seemed to see Alan for the first time. It walked then, slowly. Alan heard no birds. Had they all fled? He was aware of his own cat, who had been sitting on the lichened bench, scuttling through the cat-flap as though the devil himself was on his tail. The lion (how can there be a lion in my garden?) took two languid steps in Alan's direction as the man reversed towards the house. Step. Step. Slow step. Then, the lion appeared to get bored, turned around, sniffed, and left through the gap in the hedge.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A bored suburbanite encounters something unusual in his garden...
_____________________________________________________________________
Alan Pritchard sat at his kitchen table, round, light pine, toast, crumbs, coffee. Alan gulped down the last of his orange juice and hurriedly kissed Marie, his wife, who was sporting now a decent six-month bump. His 14 year-old daughter, Phoebe, was running around the house, squealing that she couldn't locate her schoolbag. Alan shouted a goodbye to everyone, ran to his car and within twenty minutes was at the office, sitting at his desk.
He was, like millions of others in the developed world, a middle-manager. He was the superior of twelve employees, subordinate to many others. Some in their branch of Grow-co plc liked him; others felt he was getting too big for his boots; others in the office barely acknowledged his existence. Alan was willing to recognise that his life was, compared to the existence of some, boring. Steady. Predictable. His self-awareness, though perhaps limited in some respects, did allow him to acknowledge that his life was rather less than exciting. On days like that Thursday, quiet and downtime, he was able to indulge in a little self-reflection.
However, Alan's life, those brief breathing moments, was not always so dull. As a young man of nineteen, he had been tipped for great things. Well, maybe not great, but at least good. His uncle Ted had been a minor driver on the Formula One tour back in the sixties, and he recognised in Alan similar skill, ease with speed, abnormal reflexes which set good drivers apart from the competent ones. Alan was fast, keen, streamlined, and talented. Ted always said his nephew was much more talented than he himself was in his pomp. Which wasn't all that pompy, Ted used to joke.
Alan had been allowed to test himself at the Silverstone track, using Ted's contacts. He had impressed many, and had begun to entertain dreams of big money, Bugattis and supermodels.
Then Alan had met Marie. It was comfortable from the start, and within a few months she was pregnant with Phoebe. She had been willing to put up with his driving at the start but then she had begun to build a brick wall called responsibility. Alan, unable to scale it or get round it, simply gave in, and, following an 'in' provided by his father-in-law Gerald, had gone to work for Grow-co. He recalled the glint in Marie's eyes when she had put her arms around him and exclaimed – you're a middle-manager now! He smiled at the thought but was not sure if he felt happy or sad at the memory.
And here he was still, fifteen years later. The archetypal middle-manager, tolerated by some, disliked by others, ignored by many. Marking time with promotions, sackings, meetings about when to hold the next meeting....
He wondered whether he still held the dream. Inside. He did, but was, at thirty-four, much too old. This made him sad. Maybe there were other dreams. The phone rang. A customer had a complaint. Alan set the audible affability in place and dealt with it.
At shortly after eleven in the morning he began to be hit by waves of nausea. Then, it rose and became the worse migraine headache he had had for years. Alan was one of those employees who was never sick. He was reliable, steady, at all times and in all things.
Still, on that Thursday morning Alan went home with the express permission of Mr Gorham and was sitting with a camomile tea by midday. The house was empty – Phoebe was, of course, at school and he seemed to recall Marie was meeting an old school friend. Alan was glad, and carried his tea from the kitchen to the living room, where he removed his shoes and lay back on the soft sofa. Placing his World's Best Dad mug on the coffee table, he lay back and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and he popped a couple of Paracetamols. The drive home had been difficult but he found himself relishing the fact that he would be, as they say, home alone.
All he could hear was nothing at all. Everyone was at work. A Sunday morning was noisier here in management land, where lawn mowers came to life, gardens were sprayed, and cars were lovingly sponged and polished.
The silence was interrupted briefly by the sound of a taxi stopping at the end of the street, brakes characteristically squealing. Alan heard a door slam and the sound of footsteps. They were not leading to his house – why would they? – and he once again put his aching head to the soft cushion. Across the room their cat slept soundly, sprawling across the armchair, oblivious to his arrival.
He must have dozed off because the clock, ticking loudly but unheard, now showed one fifty-five. Almost two hours! He hoped that his clerical assistant Graham had followed up that call from the irate customer....
The cat had left the comfort of the armchair and could be heard crunching biscuits in the kitchen. Alan realised that his head felt better and got up to look in the garden. The grass needed a final cut before winter set in, the place needed a good weeding, and that gap in the privet hedge seemed to be getting bigger. It was, in truth, something of an eyesore. He just hadn't had the time to do anything lately. Anything but work.
Alan decided he would take advantage of this unexpected free time. The sun was shining now, it was still fairly warm for October, and he was feeling better now. Much better.
Alan stood outside, in his old shoes. Old corduroy trousers. Old checked shirt. He felt like it was Sunday. Only the church bells were absent.
Then, a sound. A grunt? A smell, a warm aroma of wildness, just there, passing on the brown breeze. It was coming from the green area beyond the hedge, beyond the gap in the hedge he should have fixed years ago. How do you fix a hole in a hedge anyway? Do you fill it with more hedge, imported hedge from elsewhere, from another hedge? Do you just cut the whole thing down and start again? These were the mainly vacant, absent thoughts which floated around at the edge of Alan Pritchard's mind as he saw it. It came through the gap. The smell grew more pungent, more palpable. Then, the reality of it was there, twenty feet away. A fully grown lion.
An African lion, Alan thought. They are bigger than Indian ones and there are hardly any of those left. How do you fill a hedge gap and why did I not do it? I wish I had...
The great cat stopped just inside the garden, lifted its maned head and sniffed imperiously. It seemed to be appraising the state of the garden. The lion did not look impressed. Then, it seemed to see Alan for the first time. It walked then, slowly. Alan heard no birds. Had they all fled? He was aware of his own cat, who had been sitting on the lichened bench, scuttling through the cat-flap as though the devil himself was on his tail. The lion (how can there be a lion in my garden?) took two languid steps in Alan's direction as the man reversed towards the house. Step. Step. Slow step. Then, the lion appeared to get bored, turned around, sniffed, and left through the gap in the hedge.
About the Author
Born in Edinburgh and now living in Fife, Garry Stanton is a musician to trade, as well as a teacher in training. His debut album, Indigo Flats, was released online in 2010.
Garry also writes, having completed a couple of novels, several short stories and a lot of poetry. Some of his poems have been published in the Edinburgh-based poetry magazine, Harlequin. And his novel, The Heights, was published by McStorytellers in 2013.
Garry also writes, having completed a couple of novels, several short stories and a lot of poetry. Some of his poems have been published in the Edinburgh-based poetry magazine, Harlequin. And his novel, The Heights, was published by McStorytellers in 2013.