It’s the formalist in me. I was always more le Nôtre in a minor key than anything else.
Photograph: © Mawgan Gyles
Christmas Eve, 1982 by Philip Langeskov
There are children across the street now. That's another thing that's changed. There are three of them, two boys and a girl. They were out this morning, early, tearing across the lawn as if nothing in the world could be so marvellous. There was no order to their movements, or at least none that I could see. They ran about with their hands in the air, in their pockets, and then stretched wide like the wings of a bird. They shouted, they screamed, they laughed, not stopping until their mother called them in for breakfast. They moved in a month ago. There was a time when I would have given them hell for disturbing the peace, but not now.
It has been getting colder and last night was the worst so far - the first really cold night of winter. A hoar frost had spread - I can't remember the last time we had one of those - and it covered everything: the road, the cars, the hedges, the rooftops. The street glistened. It was so white that at first I thought it must have snowed. The air was a little misty and the sun struggled to break through. Something about the colour of things, the muted yellow of the light, made me think of London during the war, a sniff of something in the air, eggy, like the smoke that used to drift across from the docks.
I stood on the lawn in my slippers, the brittle grass under my feet and the cold air circling my legs. I had a cup of tea with me and the steam rose with my breath as I stood at the edge of the lawn.
The Children opposite are terrifically good natured; they never seem to fight. I stood, shivering a little, and watched them as they ran, their scarves and coats lifting behind them and their gloves dancing on strings of wool at their sleeves. I wonder if they realise the pleasure they give. I doubt it. I doubt they even know that I'm here. If only it would snow and I could see the looks on their faces.
Our lot I don't see. I try not to think about it, but it's been well over a year, maybe two.. You always handled them better. It was always you they came to see. Whatever the reason, the garden these days looks too neat, too well-tended. It's funny, given the fuss I used to make, but I'd swap anything for a ruptured divot or a bare patch of grass at the end of the garden. I'd even let them use the buxus for goal posts. The buxus can take it. I have so much time, that's the problem. If we had but world enough and time. Remember that? I read it to you that night on the way back from the Empire. You knew what I meant. Now, I have all the time in the world and I'm always clipping at things, straightening edges. I should learn to leave well enough alone, but it's the formalist in me. I was always more le Nôtre in a minor key than anything else. I'm pleased with it - it looks nice - but I do wish it could be a bit shabby, a bit used. I can't leave the hedges alone, shaping them this way and then that. As I do it, I imagine a summer party and an audience of guests moving through the garden. I'd hang lights from the trees, float them on the pond. They wouldn't be aware of what it meant, but I'd know. I'd know about the time and craft that went in to it, drawing them on from one end to the other.
As I turned to go inside I noticed something amiss in one of the front beds. Whatever it was, it wasn't immediately apparent - just a small thing - but I knew all right, straightaway. It was like coming in from work that day. I turned the key and stood in the hall, and before I'd even put my hat up I knew. I couldn't have seen you, not from where I was, but I knew. Something had changed. The air moved differently through the house. I felt it on my cheek. In a funny way, it's like that with the beds. I know them just about as well as I know anything and I could tell something wasn't quite right. It could have been a fox or a badger moving through in the night. I wouldn't have minded, but I had to know. I went over to inspect, turning my back on the street and the lawn where the children had been playing. For a time, I couldn't work it out. Up and down I walked, peering into the shrubs, bending to look at things from ground level. Whatever it was, I just couldn't see it. To take my mind off it for a moment or two, I went over to the veg patch. There's not much to see at this time of year - a few Brussels, some winter cabbage - but I like to think of what's happening beneath the surface: the potatoes swelling toward spring, and the broad beans, snug in their pods, uncurling from their sprouts. The change of scene must have done some good, because when I went back round to the front I saw the problem straight off, from a distance. It had been a fox, or more likely two of them, if you know what I mean. It's that time of year. The damage wasn't great - a bulb or two had been exposed, and a couple of bamboo canes had been pushed down - and I was soon down on my haunches tidying things up. Close to the ground, the air was fragrant with mulch, a smell that tells me that all is as it should be with the world.
I was leaning in to straighten one of the canes, my backside stuck in the air for all to see, when I heard something. You know those sounds you hear in a concert hall, just before the conductor raises his baton? The coughs, the rustling of paper, the shifting of feet; people getting ready to be quiet. Well, it was like that, only crisper, nearer at hand. Not for the first time, I thought I was hearing things. I turned around and there they were. There must have been ten of them at least, standing in two rows on the edge of the lawn, all wrapped in coats and scarves and hats. There were the three children from across the street, their parents, and some other children I didn't recognise. I straightened up a little too quickly and had to put my hand in the small of my back to steady myself. I can't imagine what I must have looked like, bent over and half-twisted round to look at them. A real old fart. We were all quiet for a moment - I didn't know what to say - and then blow me down if it didn't start to snow. They looked up, I looked up, and there were snowflakes, countless snowflakes, falling out of the pale yellow sky. And then, with perfect timing, as if it had all been planned, they started to sing, the children first, and then the adults. Once in Royal. You, alone, know how much I love that one.
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Philip Langeskov studied creative writing at UEA and was awarded the David Higham prize for fiction.
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Tuesday, 22 December, 2009
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