Wild in the Country

“Be good for Pops, Kim,” said Mum; her voice distorted with digital splats.

“You’re so hard to hear, Mum,” I said, raising my voice as if that would help. 

“I promise I’ll come for you,” she said. “It’s just hopeless with the petrol shortages, love.”

“But, when, Mum?” I shouted. “When will you come?”

Mum’s response is inaudible; her words are throttled by bursts of static crackles. It’s as if Mum’s phone has choked her to death. 

“Is the signal always this bad here?” I ask. Pops shrugs his shoulders and continues shelling peas into a green bucket. He’s happy to continue with his daily chores, regardless. The autumnal rain clouds have lingered for the last few days and I’m going stir crazy. There’s only so many times you can help tidy up the kitchen or chop vegetables for soup. 

Pops loves making his homemade broth. Mum said it was the soup that kept Granny alive for so long. In her last weeks, he’d check it wasn’t too hot for her and feed her a spoon at a time. When she was bedridden, he enjoyed sitting next to Granny in an old wicker chair. I remember watching the way he’d explain to her what was growing in the garden. She had a great sense of fun and tried to predict what was for lunch. Granny’s guess was never wrong. Even if she was incorrect, he always said she was right. I suppose she wouldn’t recall what she’d said at the end, so it didn’t matter either way. He’d do anything to make her happy.

Carrot and coriander were her favourite combination and, as luck would have it, they’d never struggled with carrots. I over heard Pops say that they’d been blessed with light, fertile soil; it had a high percentage of sand and was well-drained. Carrots adore sand and so they’d often feasted on carrots throughout the year. Granny liked to nurture aromatic herbs in the sheltered rear garden, and when she was mobile, she’d add them to her cooking. Pops had learned from the best; she’d shown him everything. He’d reassure her that he’d peeled and sliced the ingredients as agreed. She’d ask him if he’d cut out all the brown bits that hide below the skin. Pops would tell he hadn’t forgotten and yes, of course, he’d removed the hairy threads that grow after they’ve been plucked from the soil.

When Granny’s Alzheimer’s disease had progressed to its later stages, she asked the same questions over and over. Pops would repeat every detail for her until she smiled with satisfaction at the knowledge that he was running the household as requested. He was patient beyond belief and never lost his temper or frowned. 

Maybe she was checking to see if he’d forgotten a vital component, or perhaps it was the other way round? I was too young to understand Granny’s condition. It just seemed odd that I’d heard her ask those questions so many times before. During her lunches with Pops, he would take a clean napkin and wipe any excess soup from around her lips or chin. He’d dab at the liquid and remove any embarrassing signs of a slurp or dribble. He never made a comment or indicated that there was anything untoward. Pops was used to repeating everything two or three times. He was always calm and patient with Granny. In the last days, she became teary and anxious, and no information would linger long. Their communication was so fragmented at times, it was as though they lost their connection and the router needed a reboot; I’ve no idea how Pops managed to keep going.

I remember the funeral at Saint Cuthbert’s church. It lasted forever and waiting by the graveside in the wind and rain was a nightmare. Mum had a cold and a runny nose when we started that awful day and she came down with influenza and spent a week in bed afterwards. They made me watch the coffin disappear into the ground. I waved goodbye and gripped Mum’s hand. She kept blowing her nose; it was bright red by the time we got home and her eyes were swollen and sore. Pops didn’t say a word to anyone, and his face was static and impassive. The priest’s voice passed over me like surf washing over a pebbled beach. It was just a white noise that rose up and melted away. He’d never met Granny and concluded his eulogy by saying that he was sorry not to have known her. His words departed with a soft, cascading clatter that dissolved into a gentle sizzle like bubbling foam. 

I recall the last minutes of the ordeal were marked by silence and an icy breeze picked up. Pops knelt down on one knee and reached forward to touch the oak casket lid. His delicate caress reminded me of his gentle movements when he touched Granny’s face to wipe away the detritus during her mealtimes. The tips of his fingers trailed over the smooth wood as if they were reluctant to say farewell and send her to be devoured by the ravenous earth. I imagined his bony fingers acted like antenna; a lifetime’s tenderness and love were drifting between them through those long pale digits. As Pops touched the smooth lacquered surface, his lips quivered before snapping back into place. It was their final communication before their thoughts were lost amongst the crackle and drone of every day life. 

The six men surrounding the coffin took the strain as the pallbearers’ assistant tugged away the careworn supporting timbers. They slid the casket ropes through their gloved hands in silence. Inch by inch, the wooden box floated down into the gaping hole below. The last moments of her journey away from Pops lasted forever. I could see his hand tremble like a wind-dried sycamore leaf as it hovered above her. His eyelids narrowed as though he were reversing the flow of salty tears that welled up out of sight. The coffin voyage came to an end, and the ropes slithered upwards like hungry serpents. Pops extended his legs and assumed his full height. Mum sniffed again and put her arm around my shoulder. Without turning away from the last sight of his beloved, he offered Mum a clean handkerchief and closed his eyes.

Mum had said the country air would do me good and Pops needed the company. She said she thought that he was going a bit strange by himself. I’d been with Pops during the half term holiday and now it looked as though I’d be staying a while longer. How long was anyone’s guess; Pops didn’t have a car, and it was a twelve-mile walk to the local train station. I was missing my school friends and my old bedroom, too. Camping out in the big spare bedroom with whatever I’d brought with me was fun at first, but I was missing the Internet and my two cats.

Staying at Pops was like going back in time. Pops was off-grid and enjoyed pottering about, however, there’s only so much pottering about that one can stand. He grows his own food and keeps chickens, too. I mean chickens are fine and fresh eggs with rich golden yolks are really tasty, but you can’t exactly play with a hen; they’re not that way inclined. 

The day when Mum called to say she couldn’t collect me, it had been raining for three days straight. Pops had done his best to keep me entertained; we’d played cards and scrabble, and I’d rearranged my room and helped around the house. I was getting fed up with the situation and he knew it.

“How about a walk down to the village to get some butter and flour?” he said, knocking the pea pods in to a colander full of vegetable peelings.

“Do we have to?” I said, yawning. “It’s raining out there and---”

“Oh, it’s only a few spots,” he said. “Maybe we could get some ice-cream---”

“Ice-cream?” I said, brightening at the prospect. “But my coat’s not water proof and---”

“You can wear my old sou’wester.”

“I’ll get my wellies.”

We set off and took a detour via the compost bin so Pops could dump the scraps. He showed me the little door at the bottom of the container and explained how the process worked. I’d never taken much notice or given the notion much thought before. It made me think about the funeral for some reason, but I didn’t like to ask. Perhaps another time was better?

Pops had given me a candy striped canvas tote bag when we set off and instructions to be vigilant. I’d no idea what I was looking out for, but soon discovered the dense foliage at either side of the road offered a bountiful supply of plump blackberries and wild raspberries, if I but knew where to look. We soon collected a couple of bags full of ripe berries; it was all part of Pops’ plan for the afternoon. He chattered away and introduced me to the hidden world of the English hedgerow. Pops pointed out birds’ nest and muddy paw-prints left by badgers and their various furry friends. It took us two hours of dawdling and meandering to reach our destination. 

The nearest village was two miles away and consisted of eight yellow sandstone cottages and a post office, which doubled up as a general store and a café, too. There was a disused payphone that now housed a green and white plastic defibrillator unit.

Pops introduced me to Mr Cawston, who owned the store. He was a jolly man whose rosy complexion suggested years of agricultural work and too much Scrumpy-Jack. I was allowed to choose a magazine from his little library and a small bag of pick ‘n’ mix. Pops suggested we have a break from our odyssey, and we took a seat in the café. When I say café, I better explain that the café was, in fact, two tables in the middle of the shop, which was also part of the post-office. Mr Cawston’s wife was the waitress and despite my reservations, the strawberry milkshake was delicious. The Post-Office was warm, friendly, and a cosy spot to visit on a wet Wednesday. Anyway, there was a place to dry out my jacket, and that was important too.

Mr Cawston was a comical fellow and entertained us with local gossip for the duration of our stay. 

We returned with all our ingredients and Pops rolled his sleeves up.

“Right, Kim,” he said, “Let’s get to work.”

He tasked me with rolling flower and butter together until I filled a mixing bowl with tiny white balls. I looked at Pops for a clue and pursed my lips as if to ask the question.

“We’re going to have a mixed fruit crumble,” he said, as if I was supposed t know.

Later that evening, we sat down to a warm plate of fruit crumble and vanilla ice-cream. 

“Hmmm, that was some pudding, Pops.”

“Amazing what you find just lying about, isn’t it?”

I was finishing off a second bowl of crumble when my phone lit up and vibrated.

It was Mum with an update about the petrol crisis. It went to voicemail, and I understood that she’d bought some fuel from a pal who’d bought too much. There didn’t seem to be much of an emergency anymore. There were things to keep me busy here now. 

The End