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I walk under the arch and there, ahead, is the lane, gently curving around the stream and a copse of dark-green cedars. They are the only green thing. Everywhere else are the bare, and almost black, hazel trees.
If I hadn’t grown up here and remembered the two first houses, I’d never have known them from the high tangled thorny bushes. The once pretty roses are all dead and ivy covers everything.
The only garden that still looks kept is Labri Catch, our own double-fronted house. Grandad must have been taking care of it. My heart twists for him, surrounded by so much neglect, while he alone tried to keep his house tidy. It breaks my heart to see the grass so carefully cut on either side of our garden path as I walk up to the front door. Dead leaves have been cleared and the flower beds are dug up and look prepared for spring. He must have done all of this before his fall.
I knock and wait. No one comes to the door. I knock again.
Finally, I try the handle and the door opens. No more time for memories and new impressions, the only impression I get is of something burning. A door slams, and smoke drifts out from where the kitchen used to be. As I drop my bags on the carpeted floor, I can hear a chair or something fall over with a loud clatter, a woman crying out, followed by plates smashing. I hurry to the kitchen and push the door open. Inside the place is filled with smoke. There’s a woman wafting a towel but making no difference.
“Hello?” I try to make myself heard over the sound of the radio, which is blurting out the one o’clock news.
The woman turns towards me but she’s so flustered, she trips over the fallen chair, and I have to rush to catch her before she lands on the broken plates on the floor.
“Elodie?” a gruff voice calls.
It’s then that I notice Grandad sitting in a winged armchair, a blanket over his knees. He’s wearing a medical neck brace.
“Come in, girl. Doris stop tha’ waving abou’.” He tries to get up but it’s not easy.
“Don’t get up Grandad.” I go to him and bend to give him a hug, careful of his neck.
He doesn’t kiss me but pats my shoulders several times a little awkwardly. “You well?”
“I’m fine. What’s happened here?” I straighten up and look around.
The source of the smoke is the open oven; thick acrid smoke pours out of it. I grab the towel from the woman and use it to pull out a baking tray. Holding it as far from my face as I can, I fumble for the side door handle. It finally opens onto the back garden, and I quickly drop the tray on the ground and shake the hot towel from my fingers. The air and cold breeze help blow away the smoke and reveal something that must have been a chicken but is now a lump of charcoal.
My grandad’s voice comes through. “Stop crying, Doris. It doesn’t matter.”
Back inside, I find Doris trying to clean the counter of debris. Now I see her properly, she’s about forty and has the slanted eyes and flattened nose of someone with Down Syndrome. She looks very upset.
“Hi. I’m Elodie.”
She wipes at her tears and nods.
“Are you okay?”
“She is in a twist about the chicken,” Grandad says, his voice as gravelly as I remember it, “I keep tellin’ her it don’t matter.”
The clutter on the kitchen counter includes partly peeled potatoes and carrots.
“Here, let me deal with lunch. Sit down.”
I find a knife and chop the vegetables into small cubes. It’s hard work because Doris’ knife is blunt and so is every other knife in the kitchen drawer. The chopping board is old and scarred; everything about the kitchen is old and scarred. I really can’t remember how it looked when I was ten, but everything from the butcher’s block countertop to the flagstone floors looks…how can I describe this? It’s as if someone cleaned it regularly but only superficially, so the corners and joints are blackened. When I put the vegetables on to boil, the AGA looks tarnished and spotted.
My heart gives a painful squeeze inside my chest. Grandad has lived alone for twenty years, since we moved away, and it shows. Everything here needs TLC including the old man himself. His once wiry salt-and-pepper hair is now feathery and white. He’s always been thin but now he looks like a bent wire hanger wearing pyjamas too loose. His cheeks haven’t been shaved for a while and worst of all, his clothes haven’t been washed for at least a fortnight.
“Grandad?” I ask. “Has anyone been coming to look after you?”
“Look after me?” he asks almost angrily. “What for?”
“No, I mean because of your accident,” I quickly backpedal.
“Doris does my shopping,” he says, almost smiling towards her. “She bought the chicken.”
His words bring on another flood of tears.
“It’s alright, Doris. I’ve burned lots of dinners in my time. You should ask my ex-boyfriend how many chickens I’ve ruined.” I smile at her and dig into my pocket for some tissues. It takes a few minutes before she can smile back.
