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Meanwhile Gardens:
An Urban Adventure
Written by Charlie Caselton
Chapter
One - Humdinger III
For the third morning in a row Ollie Michaelson woke up with
'Bringing in the Sheaves' playing in his mind with all the
insistence of a church organ.
As the phone rang he looked at the alarm clock beside his
bed and saw 9.45 in flashing red letters. Ollie knew who it
was before he picked up the receiver. The first of his concerned
morning calls.
"It's a beautiful day." The woman's voice was firm but friendly
with a hint of Jamaican that betrayed her childhood. "Join
me for coffee."
He yawned and stretched. "Hi Auntie Em."
"I know you weren't out last night. And you certainly didn't
have company."
"Auntie Em - "
"If you're not going to join me I'll bring something back
for you."
"I - "
"And we'll go for a walk. Your young friend will need to.
You can't stay in and mope for ever."
Without waiting for a reply she gently put the phone down.
Auntie Em knew that if you gave people the option they would
invariably take it.
Sometimes it was best not to give it to them.
Ollie stayed in bed for another
half-hour, enjoying the gentle breathing and warmth of Hum,
the 'young friend' Auntie Em had alluded to, the young friend
that twisted and turned in his sleep next to him.
Ollie appreciated the regular checks by his neighbours and
friends. Afterall it had now been nearly a month since his
best and oldest friend had been killed. Perhaps it was about
time, Ollie thought, to focus on his own life.
Or if not on his life, on the life of Hum who slumbered beside
him. Hum, the last living link to his dead friend. James'
death had thrust parenthood on Ollie and, he realised, he
must be responsible and think for two now.
Hum's full name was Humdinger the III. He was nearly three
years old, adorable and mischievous in equal measure - part
German Shepherd, part Briard and all wonderful.
Ollie remembered the day James had got Hum and proudly brought
him round, a two-month-old pup with attitude. It seemed natural
to call him Humdinger - what other name would fit? And as
for 'The III', well, the pup had such a confident air, such
an unshaken belief in himself, such unhesitating charm that
they both agreed he needed an appropriately American name.
All the most confident Americans had 'The III' after their
names and so, it was agreed, should Humdinger.
Chapter
Two - Cherry, Strawberry AND Raspberry?
Ollie
drew the sitting room curtains and looked down the little
mews. From here he could just see the larger corner house
where Auntie Em lived with Gemma. They were known to all as
Auntie Em and Auntie Gem.
Or Gem 'n Em for short.
Noticing movement in Ollie's windows Nicky waved at him from
her studio across the way. She put her forefinger to her thumb
and bent her wrist as if drinking from a cup.
Christ, Ollie thought, all my friends want to do is turn me
into a caffeinated wreck. He waved back and gestured for the
photographer to come over.
"She
said I couldn't stay in and mope all day. Why the hell not?
Why can't I?"
"She's right."
"Well of course she's right Nicks, but." Ollie's voice trailed
off. But what?
"But that's beside the point?"
"Exactly."
"Sweetheart, we all miss the hell out of James and no-one's
begrudging you the right to grieve but you're -? - you're
moping not grieving. You're using this as an excuse to - to
- "
"To what Nicks?"
"Just to put off whatever you're putting off, to put off living."
"I do live."
Nicky prodded him in the waist. "No sweetheart what you do
is eat. I can hardly feel your ribs."
"It's winter," Ollie blustered, "everyone's a bit heavier.
It helps to keep out the cold."
"It hasn't been that cold, besides there are other things
to keep out the chill like cashmere, like silken thermal underwear,
like - "
"Like porridge?" Ollie asked hopefully.
"Sure - as long as you don't overload it with cream and sugar."
Nicky went to the garbage can, lifted the lid and peered in.
Inside the heavy stainless steel can were the packaging, wrappers
and empty boxes that told of Ollie's burgeoning girth. "Bramley
apple pie with cinnamon," Nicky read out loud, "rhubarb and
blackberry crumble - family size - "
"I was going to ask you over - " Ollie said defensively.
"- cherry, strawberry and raspberry thick crust -cherry, strawberry
AND raspberry?" Nicky looked at Ollie and raised her eyebrows.
"It's good, you should try it Nicks."
"An extra large tub of clotted cream - "
"It's half-fat!"
Nicky smiled and put the lid back with a clang. "Marlon Brando,
Elvis and Mama Cass are ok role models for their talent but
perhaps not for their dietary habits. C'mon Ollie, you're
growing tits for Chrissake."
With that Nicky poked him again, once in each breast. To his
shame Ollie could feel the flesh jiggle.
"Yeah, well, it's comfort food." Ollie grumbled.
"I can see that sweetheart," Nicky put her arm around Ollie's
shoulder, "but you can get comfort from other things, like
- "
"I'm not dating anyone, I'm not answering any ads, and it's
way too cold for Hampstead." Ollie said hurriedly.
" - like, exercise."
Ollie looked suspiciously at his friend. "You've been talking
to Auntie Em haven't you?"
Before Nicky could answer Hum barked a surprisingly loud bark
and raced down the stairs to the front door.
Ollie sighed and made to follow, but Nicky beat him to it.
"I'll get it."
She bounded down the stairs, returning seconds later with
a small sellotaped carton which she put on the kitchen table.
Inside were four custard tarts from the neighbouring Portuguese
café.
"These were on the doorstep - "
"They must be from Auntie Em."
" - along with a note."
Ollie grabbed for the slip of paper but Nicky pulled it out
of reach and began to read.
"Be ready in an hour. No is not an option." Nicky flashed
the note at him to show there was nothing else.
"Fresh air and custard tarts."
"Auntie Em's answer to everything."
Ollie sighed and looked out the kitchen window at the modernist
60's tower block that loomed over the mews.
On one side of the enormous structure, separated from the
main building by parallel walkways two storeys apart, was
the liftshaft and stairwell looking for all the world, Ollie
always thought, like the handle to a transistor radio.
The main building with its white-framed windows, its balconies
and criss-crossing concrete lines appeared as an extraordinary
grid against the sky.
These two features combined to make the block of flats look
like some mammoth ghettoblaster on its side.
"I often think that someday a giant in seven league boots
will come along, pick up Trellick Tower, sling it on his shoulder
and rock on his way."
Nicky paused to let this thought filter through her mind.
"Like the guy in the KEEP ON TRUCKIN' poster?" She asked.
Ollie clinked his mug to Nicky's. "You got it."
Chapter
Three - No Ma & No Pa
Everything was so different
in London.
For a start there were so many people. So many people! Where
had they come from? And where were they rushing to with their
briefcases, their brollies and frowns?
Rion had snuck a look at an A to Z in WH Smiths at King's
Cross to confirm where she was.
As if she needed to.
Everyday for the past few weeks, ever since Christmas when
she had finally decided to leave, Rion had gone to Bridlington
library and asked for the London A to Z. She knew exactly
where she was. And exactly where she was going.
What she was going to do when she got there was another matter.
It looked easy on the map. Just turn right out of King's Cross
station and keep going.
Straight. Straight. Straight.
It was 10:40 when Rion passed
Madame Tussauds. People, five abreast, queued in a thick line
that stretched the full length of the building.
Tanya Bishop had said there was a lifesize waxwork of Tom
Cruise inside! Rion hoped it was a larger than lifesize model
for the original was a notoriously abridged version, at least
to Tanya Bishop who preferred her movie stars on the large
size. Whilst Rion admired his compact quality she feared she
would tower over Tom Cruise should she ever meet him.
Standing five foot eleven in bare feet made this an inevitability.
Judging from their accents, as much as from the coaches setting
them down, Rion noticed that the majority of the people in
line for the waxworks were French. She took this as a sign,
a good sign, for the man she was going to see today, the man
she hoped would have the answers, was French.
"Rion." She said her new name to herself - it was Rion now.
She had dropped the preceding 'Ma' on the train from Bridlington.
Marion had always felt like the wrong name for her. It was
somehow displaced, she thought, a name from a bygone age,
an age that just didn't exist anymore - and to Marion's mind
bygones should be left bygones.
From now on there would be no 'Ma' for Rion.
And thankfully no Pa.
Outside the wax museum the
smell of frying onions reminded her of how little she had
eaten since leaving Bridlington 5 hours ago. She had had a
kit-kat for breakfast. Not the usual four finger kind, but
a promotional two finger kind. In dark chocolate. Now she
was hungry.
Counting her money Rion found she had £2.27.
Exactly.
Two £1 coins, a twenty pence piece and seven pennies.
Before she approached the burger van Rion caught sight of
her reflection in the display windows of the planetarium.
She pulled down her sleeves to cover the bruises on her arms
and adjusted the collar of her thin fleece.
The reasons for her flight would remain concealed.
"Yes, darlin." The words addressed to her were more a statement
than a question.
"How much for a cheeseburger?" Her Yorkshire accent seemed
somehow out of place on the busy Marylebone Road.
The youth, his hair greased into a kisscurl over his forehead,
insolently tapped the board on the side of the fold-down counter.
"£4.50. Fries are 2.20."
He called chips - fries, and £4.50 for a cheeseburger! Although
inwardly staggered at the price Rion realised, with some pleasure,
that this was another reminder she was no longer in Bridlington.
Rion plucked up courage and smiled. "Could I have half a portion
of ch - " She corrected herself. "fries - and some onions
for £1.25?"
"This isn't a market darlin'." He sneered. "If you want a
bargain go to Portabella."
Rion walked away, the youth's laughter following her. "Eee
oop Yorkshire, you're champion lass! Aye." He mimicked to
her back. The youth shook his head violently and tutted in
disbelief.
The kisscurl remained firmly in place.
Chapter
Four - The Final Sign
Rion
was down to £1 by the time she got to the roundabout at the
start of Bishop's Bridge Road. She knew London would be expensive
but even so £1.26 seemed steep for an apple and a Mars bar.
She should have had a pound and a penny but one of the small
dirty coins had turned out to be a Canadian cent.
Another sign. Another positive sign. For Canada was the scene
of her hero's greatest triumph.
Looking up Rion saw an enormous billboard for a removals company
covering the top half of the building above her. The huge
poster showed a tightrope walker tiptoeing across the Earth
with the slogan: TAKE A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION AND MOVE
WITH US.
'Take a step in the right direction - ' Rion mimicked the
tiptoeing tightrope walker. She smiled to herself and for
an instant forgot her troubles. It would all be worth it.
"Please God," Rion whispered, "Give me one more sign just.."
And then she saw it. The fourth and final sign.
In the window of the greasy cafe below the billboard were
the words "Omelettes our speciality." Now there could be no
doubt! Her hero's favourite meal spelt out in bold letters
right before her eyes. Right before her eyes!
First the 'French' tourists, then the 'Canadian' cent, followed
by, 'Take a step in the right direction...' and finally 'Omelettes'
Ignoring her blisters Rion hurried on. The man she was going
to see would have the answers. Now she was sure.
Chapter
Five - First
Sighting
Rion raced through
the passages of the underpass, expecting at any second to
be mugged. She had seen 'Crimewatch' and knew what to expect
from grimy London subways but to her relief there was no one
around.
Or would she be safer if there were other people around?
Was it safer in a crowd?
But then again didn't people vanish in crowds? There was that
story the other week of a girl, not much older than herself,
who was kidnapped in broad daylight and later found - well,
she flinched, it just didn't bear thinking about.
Finding herself in the open basin of Little Venice Rion was
relieved to see a man on a bench overlooking an island. Remembering
her last encounter with a Londoner, the greased youth from
the hamburger van, Rion took a deep breath and approached.
"Excuse me." Her voice-sounded nasal, her attempt at flattening
her accent not entirely successful.
"Excuse me." She tried again, this time with more success,
sounding, she thought, like someone on the telly. "Could you
tell
me where - "
As the man turned round Rion knew she had made a mistake.
The man's eyes were red and weepy, snot encrusted his nostrils,
his breath a mass of fumes. The man picked up a bottle and
waved it at her. "Do I look as if I know where I'm going?"
He slurred. "Go on gerrrout of it. Piss off girlie."
Rion's asthma and blisters slowed her down on the other side
of the canal where she stopped to catch her breath beside
a line of longboats. The names of the brightly coloured barges
initially soothed her and her inflamed alveoli.
'The Morrisco.' Aaah, she smiled, no doubt a Latin step danced
by sweet old couples.
'Longfelloe.' Probably refers to the size of the boat, Rion
thought, although the spelling struck her as slightly odd.
'Home Sweet Home.' Home Sweet Home?
Rion shuddered and carried on.
Chapter
Six - Hum
goddammit!
Another twenty minutes
of limping found her at the back of an enormous bunker of
flats, 20 storeys at least Rion thought, higher than anything
she had seen in her life. The towering concrete block was
set in its own park complete with meandering two-tiered pond.
As Rion approached a man bounded up the steps that joined
the park to the canal 10 yards in front of her. He was in
his late twenties she guessed, and quite handsome in his way,
although he could lose a few pounds, maybe even a stone. A
woman, perhaps his mother, followed.
They looked trustworthy Rion thought. She would ask them how
far she had to go. Again she pulled down her sleeves to hide
her bruises and pulled up the collar of her fleece. Rion took
a deep breath.
"Excuse me." Rion smiled nervously. "Could you tell me how
far it is to - " She couldn't finish the end of her sentence
before the man shouted at her. "Hum!"
Rion looked nervously at him. "I beg your - "
"Hum goddammit!" The man's eyes bulged alarmingly as he seemed
to look through her. Rion's breath caught in her throat. Who
was this madman and why did he want her to hum?
Rion looked to his companion for support but the woman simply
yelled in the same authoritative tone. "Hum!"
Her eyes brimming with tears Rion began on the only tune that
came into her head. She falteringly hummed the first few bars
of God Save Our Gracious Queen before she seized her chance
and dashed away.
"Hum!"
She heard the man order again but Rion was hobbling away as
fast as she could, hoping to God they wouldn't run after,
catch her and - oh my gosh, ghastly images filled her mind
again. Rion half ran, half-limped round the bend in the canal
and away from the deranged couple.
By now Rion was convinced that everyone in London, absolutely
everyone, was mad or horrible.
Or both.
"Hum!" Ollie shouted again before looking after the young
girl. "Hey!" He called to her back but Rion had vanished around
the corner with no intention of returning. Ollie shrugged
his shoulders and gave one final yell. "Hum!"
This time he was rewarded by a glimpse of Humdinger the III
under Carlton Bridge faraway in the distance.
"Auntie Em, he's over there."
Within ten minutes Rion had crossed over the canal and stood
before some open iron gates painted white. With trembling
heart she entered the small building to the right, handed
over the last of her money for a map, then walked through
the triumphal arch into the calm of her destination.
She had made it.
Kensal Green Cemetery.
Chapter
Seven - Strange,
but undeniably handsome
It was peaceful
here.
The cemetery had none of the emptiness, none of the gloom,
of the stony patch attached to St Kilda's chapel in Bridlington.
There the graveyard was filled with stolid headstones of people
awash with decency and thrift. Here Rion could see that thrift
was neither desired, nor indeed a consideration. For as far
as the eye could see there were temples and obelisks, marbled
family shrines and miniature churches for the dead, all laid
out along elegant, tree-lined avenues.
Rion saw on her map that her hero's grave was at the far end
of South Avenue on the other side of the cemetery. Excited
now she set off.
After a few steps she had the peculiar feeling she was being
watched. Rion looked up but the only people she could see
were a rather incongruously jolly little group beside a grave
on what, after a hurried look at the map, she deemed to be
North Avenue.
She carried on, her attention soon taken by a rather romantic
stone canopy nearby. Rion turned off Centre Avenue onto the
soft, slightly springy wood chips of a smaller path. Again
she felt she was being watched, but again a furtive glance
revealed no one.
Within moments she was standing in front of a sculpted comforting
angel that guarded the grave beneath the canopy.
"George Augustus Frederick Percy Sydney Smythe. Seventh Viscount
Strangford and Second Baron Penshurst." She read out loud
the lettering carved in stone.
"He died before he was forty, you know - "
Rion jumped, startled by the young man who had suddenly appeared
beside her. The young man ignored her look of surprise and
continued.
" - of brandy, dissipation and consumption. He was a journalist
as well as a Tory politician - who would have thought eh?"
He said wrily. "Plus ca change - " He paused for a moment
in reflection. "What do you think dissipation is?"
From her previous encounters with Londoners Rion thought it
best to remain silent.
"Whatever it is," he continued, "it doesn't sound very now
does it?"
Rion turned to look at the young man who appeared oblivious
to her silence. He was roughly the same height as her although
much, much older - at least 26 she reckoned. He wore a raggedy
sweater over paint spattered jeans. His black hair bounced
in thick curls over his forehead.
"I used to know a gardener years ago called Percy." The young
man paused for a second in reflection. "You don't get too
many Augustus's - or should that be Augustii? - now do you?
You did then though. Another Augustus, George 111's sixth
son - the Duke of Sussex - is buried here. It's said his house
was full of singing birds and chiming clocks and that during
his final illness he survived on a diet of turtle soup and
orange sorbet! Imagine!"
Rion began to imagine if he would ever stop talking.
"Some of these graves go down sixty feet or more," he continued,
"and have spaces for generations of the same family."
Rion overcame her nervousness. "How do they get down there?"
She asked curiously
"Ropes and pulleys. There are also catacombs under the main
chapel but I don't know much about them." Jake gazed over
the acres of tombs and monuments. "I could show you around
if you'd like."
"Thanks, it's ok," Rion said hurriedly, "I'm just trying to
find the grave of - "
"He was known as a dazzling, handsome rake."
"Sorry?"
The young man gestured to the elaborate grave. "George Augustus
Frederick Percy Sydney Smythe, Seventh Viscount Strangford
and - "
" - Second Baron Penshurst." Rion finished for him.
The young man smiled. "It is also said he fought the last
duel in England. Nifty huh?"
Nifty? Rion felt herself warming, somewhat against her will,
to this talkative young man. Anyone who could use the word
'nifty' - and get away with it - might just be ok.
"I'm Jake by the way."
Rion avoided his eyes and didn't offer her name.
After a pause he asked. "Would you mind if I accompanied you?"
"Really, it's ok, I - "
"Well, as long as we're both going in the same direction.
Shall we?"
Chapter Eight - Don't come knockin'
Jake took Rion gently
by the elbow and turned her round to face the burial places
lining the other side of the small path. After a couple of
steps he stopped before a white marble grave locked inside
some railings.
"William Makepeace Thackeray." Jake announced.
Rion looked up, interested. She peered closer. "We were reading
'Vanity Fair' at school."
"Ah, Vanitas vanitatum - " Jake said sombrely.
"- all is vanity." Rion finished the closing sentence of the
novel for him intrigued. Who was this gentle-mannered, undeniably
attractive, but undeniably strange, man and what was he doing
in a cemetery? "I was going to take my A level in June."
"Was - ?" He enquired.
"Well, it's, my plans changed, nothing - " She flustered.
Jake put his hand up to stop her. "It's none of my business
is it?"
"No it's just, yes, I mean - I'm not going back."
To stop her embarrassment Jake gently took her by the arm
again. "This you must see."
He led her back to where the main avenue branched to the left.
In front of them was a compact, ornate shrine.
"Now this man knew about life."
Rion looked at the carved stone tomb, decorated with shields,
that lay on blocks of green marble. The whole was enclosed
by red columns that supported a canopy of arches, gargoyles
and other flourishes. "Who was he?" She asked, awed by the
overdecorated Gothic shrine.
"Commander Charles Spencer Ricketts 1788 -1867. He ran away
to sea when he was seven years old, served under Nelson at
Trafalgar, quickly rose to the rank of Commander, married
an heiress and retired at 27."
Jake paused to let the information sink in before continuing
in a tone half-admiring, half-envious. "Now tell me that wasn't
a great life plan? I mean, who could want for more? Marrying
an heiress and retiring at 27 - it's every man's dream."
Suitably impressed Rion followed Jake as he ambled down the
avenue, pointing out the graves of notable people as well
as their foibles.
Finally they arrived under a large evergreen oak where the
cemetery bordered the canal. This could be the moment, Rion
thought, where she could thank him for his company before
setting off to find her hero's grave.
"Are you a guide here?"
Jake smiled. "Not exactly."
Rion noticed Jake's attention had been taken by something
behind her. She followed his gaze to see a taxi coming down
the main avenue in the distance.
"What do you do then?"
"I thought we agreed to no questions." Jake replied goodnaturedly.
"Well, do you live round here?"
Jake rolled his eyes.
"I know it's none of my business, and I wouldn't normally
ask," Rion said hurriedly, not wishing to appear forward.
"It's just I'm trying to find somewhere to stay and - "
Jake again raised his eyes skywards.
"Sorry, I know, no questions."
"No, it's not that but - " Jake paused for a moment, unsure.
He then looked her level in the eye. "Can I trust you?"
Rion felt her cheeks redden as she returned his gaze. Embarrassed
she looked at the ground before forcing her eyes to meet his
again. "Yes."
Jake again looked into the ivy-clad tree. "This is where I
live." He pointed out the evenly spaced notches at the back
of the trunk that led to the lower branches and the dense
foliage.
Squinting upward Rion could just make out some planks camouflaged
green some way above above her head. "You live - " She jerked
her eyes up, amazed. " - up there?"
The taxi was at the top of Terrace Avenue now, slowly making
its way down the muddy track towards them.
"Damn." Jake said. "She's early." He paused for a moment before
leading Rion away from the approaching taxi.
"I know a place you can stay. It's unusual but quite comfortable."
"I - " Rion began.
"Don't worry, there'll be no funny business."
They had reached a cluster of gravestones away from the tree.
Jake motioned for Rion to sit beside one. "She doesn't like
to see anyone around when she arrives. Come back in an hour,
no, make it 3;15 just to be on the safe side."
Jake began to walk away. After a second he turned back. "What's
your name?"
"Rion."
"Rion?"
"Like Marion but without the Ma." Rion added helpfully.
Jake again began to walk away before turning once more as
if he had forgotten something. "Oh," Jake paused, looked at
the ground then looked back at Rion and smiled. "Don't come
knocking if the tree's-a-rocking." He winked at her. "Know
what I'm saying?"
Rion felt her face flush a deep red.
Chapter Nine - Dazzling Turquoise Pumps
From her hidden
place beside the grave of Emmeline Pilkington, whose tombstone
was inscribed with a beguiling 'In fragrant memory', Rion
watched Jake shin up the notches of the imposing tree and
vanish from sight.
Through curious eyes she saw the taxi stop beneath Jake's
tree. A slender woman stepped out, paid and quickly looked
about her. She was dressed in a well-cut jacket, tailored
trousers and turquoise pumps. Shading her eyes were an owllike
pair of dark glasses. A large bouquet of flowers peered out
of the elegant pink shopping bag she held in one hand. On
the side of the bag were the words GHOST written in big white
letters.
"Come back at 3 o' clock sharp." Rion heard the woman say
authoritatively.
As the taxi slowly bumped and rattled up Terrace Avenue the
woman, looking for all the world like a bereaved widow, placed
the bouquet of flowers beneath the tree. When the taxi made
its way out of the distant main gate Rion saw the woman look
around before taking off her dazzling turquoise pumps. She
put them in the pink bag where the flowers had been, put the
bag over one shoulder and had a final look about her. Satisfied
she wasn't being watched the woman went to the back of the
tree where, to Rion's amazement, she nimbly stepped up the
notches and away from view.
Rion stayed beside the tombstone of the fragrant Emmeline
for a minute wondering if what she had seen really happened.
Deciding it had done, and deciding that Londoners really took
the biscuit, Rion walked back to the mysterious tree. Without
looking up into the prolific vegetation that concealed she
couldn't imagine what, Rion picked up the bouquet of flowers
and hurried away.
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