Mrs Rummage

MRS RUMMAGE

‘Lizzie, don’t take your shoes off. You’re going round to see Harry Rummage. He needs your help.’

‘Seriously? Mum, I’m tired.’

‘So’s he. Stop moaning, it won’t take long. Tea’ll be ready when you get back.’

Lizzie threw down her school bag and went back out, through the front door. A narrow footpath led from her house under towering walls of holly. It had been a hot, dry day. She walked through their shadow and breathed in the dark green air with a sigh of relief. Through the kissing gate and across the lane. There, with a crumbling roof and flaking powdery walls, sat Cuckoo Cottage, the oldest house in the village.

Lizzie fought past the grasping fingers of a thistle grown monstrous and went through a splintering wooden gate to the back of the house.  Mrs Rummage’s garden had grown wild and bushy since she died. Lizzie closed her eyes and let the moment soak into her skin. Bees floated and droned, a breeze whispered through the branches of an ancient ash and the scent of lavender and tea roses filled her head like a dream. When she opened her eyes, Lizzie turned to see an old man, silver and nut-brown, sitting on a bench in the shadow of a gnarly-armed apple tree. Across the wilderness, he was staring at her.

‘Hello, Mr Rummage. It’s a lovely day,’ Lizzie called.

‘You’re right there, love. It is. Beautiful.’

Lizzie picked her way across a weed strewn path and sat next to him.

Mr Rummage sighed and with sad eyes said, ‘I’m afraid this place has run on a bit since she went.’

 ‘I’ve always loved this garden, Mr Rummage. When I was little, Mrs Rummage let me look for fairies in the veg patch. She said that they particularly liked asparagus and that I was to be kind to them - because they were our friends, and they helped the garden grow. She always told me to offer them tea and biscuits. I’d rootle for hours but they always hid. She’d bring the biscuits out anyway. The lemon ones were my favourite.’

Mr Rummage chuckled. ‘Oh mine too, mine too.’

A blackbird landed in front of them, cocked his head as if he wanted to ask something and then flew away to the ivy that crawled up the side of the house.

‘Nesting they are, got young’uns. Seen plenty of young’uns, over the years. Think it used to cheer her up, seein’ as she couldn’t have any of her own. When we were first wed, this place was nothing but wild. Some women might have fussed and moaned but our Enid, she just smiled and said she loved me and loved this earth and together we’d be happy. I’d turn the soil and build the frames, never minded logging or laying the paths, but this place was hers really. The growing, the colour, the magic, that was all Enid.

And now, she’s gone and I’m still here. And the roses need pruning and the ivy’s crawling over everything and the lawn’s gone to jungle and even that bloody gate needs mending. It’s too much. I can’t do it without her’

Lizzie saw a fat silvery tear start to fall down his cheek.

She took a long deep breath. It was time.

‘Mr Rummage, we need to talk. About the truth.’

He closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

‘She’s gone. She won’t be coming back. Not because she doesn’t want to. Because she can’t. And you can’t mend this garden. Not because she’s not here, but because you’re dead too.’

Mr Rummage lifted his face to the sky.

‘It’s been nearly two years Mr Rummage. It’s time to go. Will you let me help?’

A long moment, full of blackbird song, passed and then he said, ‘Yes. You’re right, you always are. Time to go and look for her. Wherever she is, we’ll find a patch and we’ll plant violets for faith and snowdrops for hope. Thank you, Lizzie love.’

As he spoke, Lizzie looked at him with her eyes shut. Hovering above the memory of his body, she saw his soul, like a shining kite, soaring to the heavens, stretching against its tether, fighting to be free. Following the line back down to the earth, she took hold and pulled it, roots and all, free from the ground.

‘Goodbye, Mr Rummage. I’ll miss you, both of you. Oh, and can you tell her that I looked and looked, but in the end it was the fairies who found me.’

And then she let go. Caught by the breeze, away he flew. Higher and higher, until he was lost in a sky as bright and blue as a field of forget-me-nots.