Then ( or Beyond Our Ken)

         My father is tearing up bibles under the hedge in an agony of rage and frustrations.

          "Hear this if you are so almighty. I am the great defiler. Go on, Smite me. What's one more life to you?"  I watch from the verandah. Looking out into the heat haze it seems I am seeing the pain he feels as a halo fizzing around him. How will he manage alone? He has nothing without me. Not since Mother died. It's been worse these last few weeks, since the fever struck. He will get through this. I cannot afford to be drawn into his madness, not today. I must make my escape as planned.

         I must meet with my grandfather on the Jade Bridge where the poor and disenfranchised of the world wait. They gather in hope of alms,  I go for deliverance. The elegantly dressed merchants and westerners who pass pretend not to see the desperation in their fellow men. Who is it do they suppose that holds them up in their superior ranks and ivory towers? There can be no upper class without a lower class. Surely they could afford some mercy, some humility.

         I know I would have no hope were it not for the generosity of my Grandfather offering to bring me out into society once we reach India. It is a chance for a future I did not dare to dream of. A chance to be part of society's mesh, rather than falling through the sieve with the dregs as my Mother had feared I would. I take my valise and hat box and set off to meet Grandfather.  

         How long will it take before my Father knows I have left? I picture him running the moth-eaten brim of his straw boater through his fingers as the fever dies in the cooling yellow air of sundown, calling for his gin and tonic with quinine,  unaware that it is Genesis burning to keep away the mosquitoes. He will stand in his cooling sweat, listening to the chant of the cicadas and crickets, muttering quietly to himself like a madman in his striped blazer. He looks like the consummate gentleman from the verandah but so much is hidden by distance.

"God, bless and keep him safe from his own destruction" I pray, a tear escaping below my veil.

         The steamer will pull out of the dock at sundown and I will leave behind everything I have known. The jade bridge comes into view, a white mirage spanning the sluggish water. This ornate stone bridge that has stood for hundreds of years offering safe passage will now transport me from this life to another. My leaving will not change this place, it will carry on regardless. Our presence on the earth is a mere blink in history, a flittering thought in a cloud of dust, blown away in a heart beat. 

         My grandfather waves and tips the brim of his top hat to me. I recognise him from the photograph in Mothers album. I am flooded with relief that he is really here and rush to kiss his greying whiskery cheek, then admonish myself for being so informal.  He smiles as he takes in my face

     "Ah, so like Evaline my dear. You have your Mother's spirit." Seeing the trail of my tears he squeezes my arm, then links it through his own, patting my hand. I feel the calm descend. I am safe in his hands. I will sail to India with my Grandfather to make a new life and take only the memory of my Mothers kindness with me.

Now

Now I sit, absorbing the serrated edges of the Jazz orchestra's syncopated rhythms rising to a crescendo while I look back over my journal, letting go of the present by looking to the past. I was so much older then, so fixed in my assumptions that this was how a grown up should behave, forever playing the role to a shifting audience. Thank God I escaped that trap, that charade. I can see now that I had been stuck, cradling the hummingbird in the cage of my soul, placating its ruffled feathers for fear of being discovered. I had been afraid of being different, afraid of the judgements others would mete out if they saw my true feelings, heard my true voice, my likes my dislikes. I had felt too small and vulnerable under the gaze of my peers. It was more important to fit the mould that they could be comfortable with. No longer, thank the Lord, what you gain with age is indeed wisdom (if of course you choose to listen to it). I am more free now than I ever was as an invincible young adult with the world at my feet. Hah, how was it that my twenties gave birth to such arrogance! I would not dream of being young again if spooning myself back into someone else's mould was the price to pay. But things were different then.
We had met at one of those unplanned flat parties that seemed to happen spontaneously, everyone arriving from the cool night air as if by osmosis and then being caught by the one way membrane of alcohol and music.  I saw his smile appear in my memory first, like that of the Cheshire Cat, the rest of his face, his body swimming into focus after. He was holding out a shot glass to me.
"What is it?" I asked, by way of introduction, not really caring about anything more than having caught his attention.
"A little kiss of citrus for your tongue." He put the glass to my lips and salt mingled with fumes on my palate. As the fire spread he planted that first bitter lime kiss on me and all I wanted was to be swallowed by those flames.
Bang. The journal falls from my knees to the floor and I lose my grip on the past. My previous life fades to memory and I jolt back to the present.

The Garden

         Autumn has fragmented into all her colours and dropped her metaphorical knickers to the ankles of the tree. Fat berries festoon the skeleton tangle of the hawthorn and bramble hedge and all the busy growth of Spring and Summer has subsided.  First frosts tattoo there intricate tracery onto the flagstones and dress the vegetation in their prettiest lace gowns. They must look their best for their beauty sleep. The garden is preparing for its silent slumber. It  will return to life. Have patience.
        Clouds hang fat and heavy with rain, glowering in the overcast sky. Will they burst here or be moved on by the invisible forces of change? The last leaves spiral in the air holding onto their moorings with the tips of their fingers waiting for their moment to dance with the wind.  A lone pigeon is revealed, fat and pompous, standing on the candelabra of branches considering whether to take the short flight to the stand of evergreens and enter once more into the fray, fighting for position with his brothers in arms. He hovers on the brink of takeoff suddenly doubting his own ability to fly. Maybe he should wait until after the rain.
        The Night Prowler flicks his bronze brush tail in the cover of dawn, preparing to pounce on his unsuspecting prey but heavier than his shadow, snaps a twig and gives himself away. A panic of feather-flaps catapults the Pheasant into the air crying his hoarse warning 'look out'. I picture him as a rather startled World War fighter pilot in a 'Biggles' getup. "Look out  chaps, there's a fox."  He lands, moving faster at a run than in flight, and takes cover in the bramble scrub. He must wait for the coast to be clear.
      The watery sun tries to raise herself above the horizon, lighting the gauzy dew dappled strands of spider webs slung between the stems of the last few flowering plants in the formal beds. She is not so eager in Autumn, this blazing star we rely on so heavily. You can feel the effort involved, the weight of the Cosmos is on her shoulders, but she will not let us down. Her warmth will filter above the trees and melt the night frosted ground.  Have patience.
      A squirrel tap dances its way along the icy fence rail, sneaking up on the overhanging Beech branch, the prickly orb of a nut hanging tantalisingly just out of reach. A serendipitous wind may deliver it to the ground for some lucky squirrel to scamper off with and hide along with his other well gotten gains.  But not yet.
    A monstrous cat stalks though the tall grass beneath the fence all fluff and bluster and pauses as he takes in the squirrel. This could be a bit of fun. They look at one another, the squirrel and the cat, appraisingly. The squirrel has the height advantage on the fence but knows this adversary of old and is not fooled.  He slip-scampers and trapeze-jumps to the higher springy branches in haste. The lion head cat watches, amused. Honour is satisfied. Hail Caesar. He flops into the grass flicking his tail, an 'another-time-perhaps' smile crossing his whiskers.
       A host of pigeons gather in the shelter of the evergreen stands preening their Ascot race-goers morning jackets bickering amongst one another and getting into a flap. They constantly compete with their neighbours for the best view, the most sheltered perch, never trusting their good luck. Place your bets Gentlemen. The feisty Garden Robin eyes his territory from his superior perch on the ornamental ironmongery of the rusting grass roller knowing that no one will challenge him now. The fight for territory is over for the year and he has won a magical land, but now he must fight the cold and the frozen water and the scarcity of food to stand a chance of filling his nest next Spring. He worries, considering his strategies, head cocked,  while the Blackbird, finished with his matins song, pecks through the leaf litter under the beech unconcerned. He is carefree and curious, let life throw at him what it may. Serendipity is on his side. He turns the leaves haphazardly hoping for a juicy morsel hiding beneath showing determined perseverance.
       This is the time of underground activity. Mushrooms and Fungi spread their grasping fingers searching hollows and rot. Bringing life to dark hidden places with their unique floral display of millinery frills from bobble hats to berets in finishes of silk and lace and felt. Some seem solitary souls, self important with their dazzling colours, while others crowd together like students at a rave not a breath of air between them. Unseen the roots are spreading, sucking and savouring the mineral richness of the earth. Gaining strength for the displays of Spring. It will be worth the wait. Have patience.
       The Pheasant spying the ground feeder emerges from his cover, cautiously crossing the frosted fronds of grass. Could this be heaven? He notices the pheasant hen for the first time, her plump pale plumage.This must be heaven. She would make a fine concubine. He is desperate for her attention and opens his wings for a flirtatious flutter-flap. "Look at me." She sees him and pauses in her trajectory, one foot frozen in a Bolshoi pointe. But not for long. He watches as she walks away, his ego bruised by her lack-lustre response. She waits in the dead grasses of the wild flower meadow under the fruit trees, coquettish, confidant. He will come to her.
       The wind stirs in the trees, encouraging the remaining leaves to a flutter-fall as a hand of warmth extends over the garden. The lone Mallard, sensing the warmth of the coming day slowly untucked his warmed beak from beneath his wing and blinks his white lidded eyes from sleep. Standing and stretching one leg looking most unstable he shakes his heads at a brain-rattling speed then begin to preen.  It is too cold now to go for a swim without checking your dry suit for holes. Preparations complete he dives in. A bird circles dark against the clouds reaching ever higher like Icarus on a turbulence of unseen currents for the sun. The Mallard looks at the Grey Heron, statuesque in the reeds, unblinking, unmoving, even in this cold. A long ago memory stirs of his mother telling him he could learn a thing or two from the heron. "The people will bring the bread" she had said. "If you go swimming about exploring with the moor hens you will miss it, stay put and the food will come to you. Have patience."
        The sound of voices breaks across nature's peace and instinct has the Pheasant  running full speed from his cover, head high and tail outstretched to protect his would be mate standing still as a statue in the long seed stems of the sleeping wildflower meadow. They crouch low, close together, camouflaged in the earthy fawn and green of wind blown  tussocks and she eyes him appreciatively. He has shown his metal: spirit, bravery, caring, strength, consideration. Maybe there is hope for this one. She lets herself believe that he may stay and see out the Winter with her.
       The drama unfolds as a door bangs and three people pour out of the house along with a bouncing wooly dog. The dog takes off across the grass nose down to an invisible scent, turning this way and that without explanation.
       " Coat! Bag! Where are your trainers? Come on we are going to be late."
       "Have patience Mum!"
I haven't got time for patience cheeky, we're late. Again."
Lights blink on the car and the doors are flung open swallowing the people whole and then they slam shut again. The engine splutters and chokes into action and begins to pull away. The house door opens again and a man in a dressing-gown runs to the car shouting and waving "Stop!" heaving open the door that had just been shut. The engine sputters and dies and is instantly turned over again.
        "You forgot your snack Munchkin! Have a good day. Bye. I'll see you later. Have you got Bob?"
         " Oh no! He must have gone out when I opened the door."
         "Don't worry, I'll get him, you go. Go,Go, Go!"
A spray and crunch of gravel as the wheels bite and move off once more and they are gone. The man turns and claps his hands together "Bob, come on boy". The dog stands still, undecided for a moment and then races back to the house tail wagging.
          That is the sound of peace shattering. It is the same every morning.The Pheasant and the Hen sit motionless in the grass, feathers touching, hearts pounding, recovering from the shock. It is only as peace resumes to the garden and the birds cease their warning calls that he realises he has inadvertently engineered a meeting with the Hen of his hearts desire. Here he is, feather to feather with her, sharing her warmth. He can feel her heart beat fluttering through his own body and feels his rise to match its tempo as she gently turns her head into his shoulder and gazes up at him through her beautiful pale lined eyes."Thank you".
Such a simple beginning. Her gentle voice resonates within his chest and he knows that whatever this magic spell is  that has woven itself delicately over them like a silken spider web, whatever it's consequence, wherever it takes them he will never willingly break away from it. She has his heart until the end of time.
      They sit together in their nest of grasses, protected from the wind and warmed by each other enjoying the companionship of closeness that is now theirs.  She tells him that she has been in the garden a few weeks since she escaped the shoot. Life is good here, the man comes to fill the ground feeder after every third moon and brings fresh grain and berries. She looks up at him again shyly and waits for him to respond " I have a den in the hedge over there, it's dry and warm. Would you like to see?" She lifts her head and cautiously checks her surroundings. Old habits die hard and besides, however safe it seems here she knows there is the lion-headed cat and the wooly dog to keep a look out for. She walks to the den conscious that he is following her some way behind and swiftly ducks into the well trodden entrance run. She calls gently and he follows her inside the grassy haven. He admires it with a critical eye and then turns to pluck a fine red feather from his breast, passing it to her for safe keeping. "You're staying then?" she asks, tucking the feather safe into the weave of grasses.
     " I"m staying" he winked "I like the company". It is all the encouragement she needed. She understood his heart to be true.
       The man walks across the garden with a bag in his hand and fills the ground feeder with all of heavens bounty. They sit motionless feathers caressing,hearts beating in unison. They need not get up yet.
Have patience, all things will come to those who wait.

The Ice House

       "Come again to me.  I will wait beneath the silverside of trailing ivy at the ice house."
Surely you cannot resist a free taste of abandon. It was our first meeting place, do you remember? Why do you not hold it in reverence and wonder as I do? Escaped from Cook's all seeing eye I was dawdling over the task of fetching the ice she needed and then, there you were, talking to me as if I was the only one in the world who could know you.
        "Can you speak in sign language?" you had asked, but I did not know what you meant.
Your touch played me like the notes of a music box, each finger stroking a delicate note from my virgin drum. You were the Tutor of my desire and a fire awoke in me, Pandoras curiosity, and unknowing, I became  your plaything. You made me swear the oath before the Green Man, knowing I would not risk his displeasure.
       " I am the secret keeper, and I hold my secret dear."
         I came often to the woods with a ready catch of words and gestures hoping to please you then, and you had teased me out of my stays with your gentle words and insistent fingers.
       " What lies beneath the earths mantle?" said your sly fox smile, and then you warmed me with probing fingers and other objects of curiosity.
       We learned our love through the seasons, mixed fire with ice, rolled in the bluebells, crushing their scent to our bare skin. The barley turned its ears to the music of your quickening groans, rasping and resonating again and again, rising in duet with my own. Wheat bowed in longing towards our snatched frenzied exertions under the bruised lightening skies of late Summer.
       You planted a seed of longing in me then, but now do not tend it. Why? You need me, your marriage is a sham, that's what you told me, you said so. You are a mirror of discontent with her, and yet cool disdain is all I see in your face now as I bring breakfast to you and your new lady wife.
         
        "Ah, you are come. Into my arms,my Lord, complete me. Can I guess how much you want me? I see your stiffness salute under the strain of silk. Fish deep into my cave of wonders and I will show you what it feels like to have molten glory at the core. She is ice and cannot melt for you like I do. The fire you laid in me burns still, if only you will stoke it my Lord. We are one, a beast with two backs that must be united in praise of The Green Man. He blessed our union of secrets.Why do you hold me at arms length Lord?"
          "What is the code to creation?" you ask me. In the glowing dim light of the ice house I step back, confused,  and look to you to teach me again while I hold steady to the ice saw blade. "To hold safe your vows, your rings, your babies teeth. My loyalties lie elsewhere now Martha, you must understand. My lady is with child."
        "No matter Lord we are still one. Hold my eyes, my hands. Don't turn your back, don't look the other way I beg you, you cannot know what I am capable of. This love will turn on itself. No!"

         Why did you not heed my warning? I cannot be held responsible for this.I see the life drain from you and know that the flames of passion are extinguished.  We are both at peace then.
Is there blood on the knife? I wipe the serrated edge on your sleeve and sink to my knees in the Crimson ice.

Young Lady Chaterley

Anemone Chatterley was a tall and willowy 14 years old, cool and aloof, affecting disinterested in her older sister's coming of age ball. She would not reveal her jealousy about all the fuss being made, it was buried deep under more confusing emotions. Her older sister, Tiffany, with dark grey eyes, honey blond hair and quick humour, had always been her Mothers' favourite, nothing would change.

Anemone could hear them now in the library, discussing the placement of the blues band in the marquee that had been erected on the croquet lawn, her Mother, Prunella Chatterley's sharp cut glass voice piercing the air in the house and slicing through the scent of Neroli from all the blossoms that had been arranged everywhere.

She would have to escape. She ran through the salon where the punch bowl with its crystal goblets had already been set out on the sideboard and out of the French windows to the lawn. It was freshly mown and the air was ripe with the earth green smell, the stripes were a groomed track leading her to the lake which spread out invitingly before her like a sheet of reflected sky.

It was so tempting. Her Mother and Sister were busy at the house and the guests were not due for several hours. She had been reprimanded severely by her Mother the last time she'd gone swimming, for displays of unseemly behaviour, but it was worth the risk to feel the cool of the water hold her. Besides, she was 14, not a baby she could make her own decision. She could see no harm in it. More to the point she was not interested in being told no. She had been invisible to the household for weeks while they had fussed over every last detail for Tiffany so they were hardly likely to notice her now anyway.

She slipped out of her tea dress and lay it by the dock then removing her pumps and rolling down her stockings she put them in the toes of her pumps.

Briefly she stood poised at the waters edge, a tall reed in her fawn silk slip with her newly bobbed chestnut hair, the height of fashion, then she sprang from her toes anticipating the glorious sensation as the water sheathed her body in its cool embrace. She resurfaced, turning on her back, momentarily considering someone other than herself: Effie would have to reset her hair before the party she would not be pleased, but she would understand, this was too glorious an opportunity to have missed.

She lazily windmilled her arms through the duck weed, dragonfly wings flitting into her vision,then, shutting her eyes she luxuriated in the suns warmth kissing her face and making shooting stars burst beneath her closed lids.

Suddenly she became aware of whistling. It was Douglas. She had noticed him of late. He had grown tanned and muscular from his efforts in the garden and from scything the meadow hay in the last few months. He was not the garden boy anymore but floating somewhere between boy and man, on the edge of knowing. She had found herself seeking him out, sneaking glances at him from under her straw hat while sitting on the terrace. Watching the way he moved made her feel deliciously uncomfortable and slightly breathless.

But it was him watching her now. That was not the same. He could not look on her, how rude. What impertinence.

He was standing at the side of the lake leaning on the handle of his rake squinting through the sun to where she was revealed in the swirls and eddies of flotsam.

" What do you think you're looking at" she snapped, suddenly aware of how visible she was.

" I was asked to clear some of the weed but now you've stirred it up I might have to get in their with you Miss Nemmy"

" Don't be ridiculous" she said feeling the blush spread through her "help me out" and as an afterthought "nobody calls me that anymore, I'm not a child"

She was at the edge now and he had her by the hand,pulling her to him, freeing her body from the waters disguise.

" I can see that miss"

The heat again rose within her and spread tentatively to new lands while she became ever more conscious of her body, gloved in the wet slip clinging against her. Had he really just said that? What did he mean by it?

This was not right. She pulled her hand from his and he bent to pick up her clothes. The shirt was taught across his shoulders and she found she wanted to run her finger across the straining fabric and feel the heat of him beneath it. Would his skin smell of the garden ?

She stood dripping, her lips parted and shivered slightly, though she was not cold, and realised he was looking at here again,  their eyes locked. For a moment it was like a magnet drawing her in,then, confused she looked down to her dress. Why didn't he just give it to her already.

She stepped forward to make a grab for the dress but stumbled forward and found herself folded into his arms.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her frantic heart. This felt such a welcome haven, strong and illicit. Was this what was whispered about behind doors when she was sent to bed, what people came to the country house parties for, a chance like this. Was this the promise of things to come, hinted at by those scandalous Authors like DH Lawrence.

At that same moment she realised she must pull away, he lowered his mouth to hers. It was the most extraordinary sensation she could have imagined. It was as if she had become the most succulent fruit in the garden and he was tasting her flesh. Goosebumps spread over her skin and desire sparked the kindling deep within her. She would never want to put it out, she wanted to be swallowed up by it and she could not help but respond. She too wanted to taste this forbidden fruit.

She pulled away to look up into his face. How could this be wrong when it felt so right,his eyes danced with the discovery of it too.

Suddenly voices broke into her consciousness. It was the voice of her Father, the Honourable Winston Chatterley,walking in the garden with some early guests.  He came into sight at the end of the evergreen tunnel of yew to their left, arm in arm with Katheryn van Prague and her daughter Desdemona. The shock on his face made tears of shame spring to her eyes.

" Lady Chatterley" he bellowed.

All she could do was run.

Green Water

Water greens the moss to life as it escapes the darkness of the cave where it is born of the earths depths, unseen. It bubbles forth from rock where one side is rough like a cats tongue, the other worn away to a polish by centuries of liquid caress.
It rolls and boils smoothing its way over singing stones and gurgling gaps in the river bank winding its way to the magical forest. Droplets of water clinging to moss, lichen, ferns, sparkling like a necklace of precious stones for a nymph to wear. How many hues of green can there be? It seems infinite in all the shading of the seasons. And as the water weaves in around and through her journey, does she remember her roots in the darkness of the earthen cave?
"What are caves" she sings,  gurgling," I follow the contours of light. I have no need of darkness. I have life and a journey ahead of me. I shall be lifted to the heavens in the glow of the sun's rays. Can't you see? I have come from antiquity and will go on to eternity. Come with me, I will carry you"

The conundrum of Geraldine Persnickety

I, Geraldine Persnickety ask myself how I will make this string of green stones belong in the wardrobe of my fashion shoot. I look a the mottled faceted peas strung together escaped from their pods in exasperation. No clasp.
I green myself into a silk shift and tie the tasseled  low waist ribbon so it falls to the gossamer hanky hem and stare into the mirror. Is this not a perfect portrait of England's green and pleasant land. Inspiration strikes, I can wear the stones as a choker. I wrap them about my pale knock leaving the ends to hang low at the front and check the impression in the mirror again. Am I not beautiful? I will dazzle in the clam shell lights of the catwalk. They green and smoke a little from their pits of anonymity but they glimmer none the less.
Jaque enters the room again to check the final running order, the turnout of the models, as if we were horses in his stable. He is looking flustered, unsure of whether he is coming or going. He has been worse since his cigarette break and I wonder what he saw as he trod the path through the woods. He has greened about the gills and I am not sure if the slick of sweat is nerves over the arrival of the audience or opiate.
They are all out there, the Great and the Good, arriving in their chauffeured Rollers and Bentleys, stepping out of their darkened interiors into the partially lit auditorium, rolls of money held tightly banded in pods at their pockets ready to honour their bets.
I prepare to step out onto the stage, visualising my shield of white light to protect me from the stripping gaze of those in the audience who would wish to see me laid bare on the central plinth,  repeating my mantra with every facet-glint from my green choker 'I am beautiful'. But then I see her,there in the audience, the woman who would make the devil panic. Could I get a message backstage with a flutter of my fan and spread the word like the disciples, like a carrier pigeon?
She is here.