BY S. D. BROWN
Copyright is held by the author.
The shed was at the far end of the allotment. Dark clouds had been gathering over it since early morning. A raw patch of sky had been slowly peeling away as if the outer skin of heaven itself was being discarded, exposing a powerful and heedless reservoir of tidal energy poised to burst in a ferocious and sustained downpour. When the wind finally took hold, it lashed powerfully with a reckless disdain for anything in its wake. The thunder bellowed and then rumbled, and then at last there was an eerie silence.
MICHAEL DIDN’T want to go, but he knew there was no choice. His mother had made him sandwiches and wrapped them in foil. He had a bottle of blackcurrant squash and a book, which he doubted he would have a chance to read. He stood waiting, holding his sandwiches against his chest. His book and bottle in a small shoulder bag.
“Right,” his mother said as she came into the kitchen, “I think that’s everything.” She leaned down and straightened his collar.
He flinched and made a face.
“Don’t be like that. You know I’ve got this appointment; I know it’s a nuisance. It’s only the one day, though, isn’t it ?” She said brightly, “and you can’t be left on your own, can you?”
“Guess not,” he said.
“And you better grab your coat too, in case you go to the allotment. It looks like rain to me.”
“No, Mum, please, not the allotment. I can’t stand it there. That shed he sits in stinks, and he smells too for that matter.”
“Don’t say that about your grandfather, dear. Be nice to him for me, OK?”
She pulled him close and kissed him on the top of his head.
***
They drove in silence. Michael was absolutely right; his grandfather did smell as often as not. He had rather let himself go since Mia’s mother had passed three years ago, and he was beginning to lose his memory too. But what else could Mia do? She had to leave him with her dad; there was no alternative. She glanced across at her son. He looked hard-faced and sullen. “I’ll be back by early afternoon at the latest, you’ll see.”
She let herself into her father’s house and they stood for a moment in the hall. “Dad, it’s me, Mia. I’ve brought Michael.” There was no answer. She shouted again and added that she had to run because she was late. Her father poked his head around the door and looked surprised to see them.
“Hi Dad, it’s me. Michael’s staying with you today. Do you remember? I’ve got that appointment I told you about. Remember?” Her father said nothing. He stared at them both. “I’ve got to run, Dad. I’m late. I’ve made him sandwiches in case you didn’t have anything in.”
“I’ve got food.”
“Yes, I know. I was just being helpful.” She turned and gave Michael a hug.
“You’re squeezing my sandwiches,” he said.
“Sorry, darling. I’ve got to dash.” She slammed the front door behind her, leaving them standing in the hall staring at one another.
His grandfather was dressed in a threadbare cardigan and stripped pyjama bottoms. He was barefoot and unshaven.
“Have you seen my pipe?” He asked.
“No,” Michael said, “I’ve only just got here.”
“Bloody thing,” he muttered and turned and went into the kitchen. Michael stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Then his grandfather poked his head around the door again. “You coming in, or what?”
Michael went into the kitchen and put his sandwiches on the table. It was a mess of unwashed plates and cutlery, jars with no tops on, and half-empty bottles. He had a half memory of the kitchen when his grandmother was alive — a warm, cozy place with the smell of baking.
“Have you found yer pipe?” Michael asked.
“What?”
“Your pipe, you were looking for it.”
“Bloody thing,” his grandfather said and walked out of the kitchen, and then walked back in. “I’m going to get dressed,” he said and walked out again. Michael waited. A moment later, he walked back in.
“I thought you were going to get dressed,” Michael said.
“That’s right, I am. I won’t be a minute.”
Michael peered out of the window. The sky was overcast. The pitch-black clouds were being hurled across the sky by strong winds. His grandfather returned to the kitchen, dressed but still wearing his threadbare cardigan over a shirt.
“It looks like it’s going to rain any minute,” said Michael.
“Nonsense. We’ll go down to the allotment and pick some raspberries. You like raspberries,
don’t you?”
“Yes, but it will be pouring any minute.”
“Didn’t you bring a coat, for goodness’ sake?” his grandfather snapped.
***
The allotment was some way from the house. The narrow, winding road had tall, dense hedges of hawthorn, field maple, and bramble on either side, which seemed to make the coal-black sky look even closer and increasingly foreboding. An uneven dirt path ran alongside the road. They walked in silence.
Eventually, Michael asked how much further it was. His grandfather turned and looked surprised to see Michael’s face staring up at him.
“How much further to the allotment?” Michael asked again. “That’s where we’re going, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we’re going to pick raspberries,” the grandfather said, more to himself than Michael.
As he spoke, large drops of rain began to fall.
“I told you,” Michael said.
“Ha,” said his grandfather, “a drop of rain never hurt no one.”
As the rain became harder, they hurried to the shed. The grandfather unlocked the door, and they stepped inside as the sky opened up in a shower of hail.
“Won’t be picking raspberries today, Grandad,” Michael said brightly.
“No indeed. Do you like raspberries?”
“Yes, they’re all right,” Michael replied with little or no enthusiasm.
Michael looked around the shed, breathing in the abiding smell of rust, dust, and decaying wood. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and dampness seemed to be seeping through every crack. Old tools were scattered on the bench, as were bits of old clocks lying abandoned. Clock faces, springs, and casings were in heaps. It was just as he remembered it. It made him feel queasy just standing there.
“Sit down, Michael,” his grandfather said, turning over a wooden crate for him to sit on. He then settled into his worn leather armchair and reached into his cardigan pocket, pulling out his pipe.
“You found it then,” Michael said.
“What, the pipe? Yes, I’m very fond of this old pipe. Your Nana gave it to me.” He filled it with tobacco. A slow and methodical ritual that Michael watched attentively.
“Mum says smoking is bad for you.”
“Well, she’s right. It is bad for you. Don’t ever start,” he said, poking the end of his pipe towards Michael.
“What about you?”
“Been doing it too long now to give up.” The hail had given way to rain which began to beat on the ash-felt roof. The wind with a high-pitched whistle had started to beat against the shed. Michael became
fidgety, anxiously trying to look through the small shed window at the darkening sky. The noise was slowly rising in tempo. His grandfather looked across at him.
“No need to worry, lad,’ he said reassuringly, “This is a sound old shed. Built it myself I did.”
Michael took his book from his bag, but the shed was too dark for reading. He asked if there was a light in the shed but his grandfather didn’t appear to hear him. He was sitting with his head down. Michael wasn’t sure whether he was asleep or not. He looked around the shed at tools and bits of clock springs and casings heaped on the workbench. His mum had told him his grandfather had once been a highly skilled clockmaker and restorer.
“Grandad,” Michael shouted. His grandfather looked up and flinched. He appeared momentarily to be surprised to see Michael sitting in front of him.
“I’m sorry, lad, I must have dozed off. I shouldn’t have brought you here, really should I? I know it’s a long way from being your favourite place.”
“That’s all right, Grandad. We would have picked some raspberries if it hadn’t been raining,” he said, looking up at the roof which was now being pelted with heavy rain.
“That we could, lad, that we could.” Nothing was said for a moment or two.
“Why don’t you make clocks anymore? You’ve got lots of spare pieces.” His grandfather made a face and looked up at the ceiling.
“Cos,’ he said slowly, “I’ve always cared more about the cuckoos than the clocks.”
Michael looked puzzled. “What do you mean, Grandad?”
The grandfather took a deep breath, unsure whether to explain what he meant or not. “Well,” he said, “When I was about your age, I was given an Observer’s Book of British Birds as a present. It was a wonderful book. I was enthralled by it, and I really enjoyed copying the pictures of the birds over and over again. And I got really good at it too, and that’s when I decided I wanted to become an illustrator more than anything else in the world.”
“An illustrator, what’s that?”
“It’s an artist who draws and paints things to go with what people write in books and magazines. All I really wanted at that time was to spend my life drawing and painting birds.”
“Why didn’t you then?” His grandfather took a long breath.
“Long story lad, I’m afraid.” Michael looked at him, urging him to go on. After a moment, he continued. “Things were different in those days. I wanted to go to art school, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. My father was very strict; he wanted me to go into the family business to make clocks and restore them like him and his father before him. I really didn’t have a choice when it came down to it.”
“I thought you liked making and mending clocks.”
“Sometimes you do what you have to do. A friend of mine, Harold Gant, you won’t have heard of him, he became an illustrator of animals and plants. Had his drawings on display in the National History Museum, no less. He travelled the world.”
“That could have been you, Grandad.”
“Well, maybe, but this is just between the two of us. The past is the past.” He looked at Michael, who was staring at him. He couldn’t really remember talking to his grandfather about anything. His grandfather leaned back in his chair.
“Now tell me, lad, what’s your favourite bird?”
“I haven’t got one.”
“No? Everyone should have a favourite bird.”
“Have you got one?”
“Yes, of course,”
“What’s yours then?”
“Ah,” the grandfather replied, “The Blackcap. Wonderful little bird.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“I call it the poor man’s nightingale because of its beautiful song. Like a little flute played quite fast. An ordinary-looking bird in many ways, I suppose; the male is grey with a blackcap, but I love it. It used to visit from Germany, but lots of them winter here now. Lovely little bird,” the grandfather said quietly to himself.
“I’d love to see one,” Michael said.
His grandfather thought for a moment and then said, “And so you shall.”
“What do you mean?” His grandfather got up and went over to a drawer and pulled a thin file. He took a piece of paper out and handed it to Michael.
“Did you do this? It’s beautiful. How old were you when you drew it?”
“Oh, a little older than you, I guess.”
“You were really good, Grandad. I can’t draw for toffee.”
“Never say you can’t draw. You just need to practice, that’s all.”
Michael tried to hand the picture back.
“No, No, it’s yours, you keep it. I want you to have it. Put it in that book of yours. Between the pages.”
“Thank you, Grandad.” His grandfather sat back in his chair and began to refill his pipe.
“Another thing,” he said as he pressed the tobacco into his pipe. “The Blackcap has traditionally symbolized resilience and adaptability.”
“What does that mean?” Michael looked puzzled.
His grandfather laughed. “Oh, never mind me, lad, I’m just a silly old fool rattling on. It just means putting up with things and making do, which I’ve done all my life one way or another.” He settled back in his chair and drew heavily on his pipe. “Don’t mind me,” he said quietly, almost to himself. As he did so, an enormous clap of thunder shook the entire shed, rattling the tools and causing tins and tools to fall from the shelves. “Hold on to your hat, lad.” His grandfather shouted, but Michael could barely hear him.
The rain now fell in torrents, beating mercilessly on the roof. The wind whipped around the shed, screaming and whining. It then buffeted the side of the shed with such force that it blew in the window, shattering glass over the workbench. Michael screamed, and as he did so, a thick branch crashed through the shed roof. It fell across his grandfather. “Grandad, Grandad,” Michael shouted. The shed went pitch black for a moment. All that Michael could see was the glow of his grandfather’s pipe. Then the whole shed was lit up by a burst of sheet lightning. Michael could barely see his grandfather amongst the tangle of branches. He screamed once more. Then there was a silence, an eerie silence. Michael brought his knees up to his chest and stared towards his grandfather. He had no idea how long he sat like that.
The shed door opened, and his mother burst in, shaking her umbrella. “I could hardly make it down the path. Thank goodness I had my boots in the car.” She said looking up. Michael rushed to her, throwing his arms around her and burying his face in her rain-soaked coat.
“Dad, Dad,” she screamed.
*** *
A few months later, they were walking back from the cemetery, having laid some flowers on the grave. Michael looked up at his mother and asked, “What’s your favorite bird, Mum?”
“Favourite bird? I don’t think I have one.”
“Everyone should have a favourite bird.”
“Is that so? Well, I don’t. Do you have one then?”
“Oh, Yes.”
“What is it?”
***
S.D. Brown is based in Dorset, England. He writes poetry, short stories and novellas. He has had work published in Acclaim, Fairlight Books,The Fortnightly Review, Vine Leaves Press, Litro Publishing, The Bookends Review, Platform for Prose, The Orchard Poetry Journal, Eucalyptus Poetry Lit., and Eunoia Poetry Review.
