Wednesday, November 08, 2006
A work in progress
The outside and the park had always been a refuge after leaving home in the morning for school. Neglected pudding bushes stand outside my old friends house nearby, once exact rounded forms, now not as well kept since her mum died. It still smells the same, the same things still grow. The sun-faded yellow paint around the doorframes and shutters could do with refreshing. Jaded rambling rose jauntily propped up against the house. I dare not stay looking at the house too long…I liked her dad but I don’t want him catching me staring like some crazed stalker. Kirsty’s mum used to take me out back to look at the countless tortoises she kept; she had about 30 in total I think. Once I found a red and black butterfly stuck to some pink bubble gum on the way to school and her mum snipped it free for me and put it in the garden. She understood creatures. Kirsty would always keep me waiting every morning so Jean would show me the animals. In winter there would always be some ‘torties’ as she called them who wouldn’t hibernate – so she carefully kept them warm by the open fire all winter. When she died Kirsty told me I was the only person who came to see her afterwards. We were only 17. I guess not many other 17 year olds know what to say in those circumstances. But death had been fairly commonplace in my family – for me it was part of life. It’s funny, Kirsty never seemed to want to touch me – something I always thought was odd. But she hugged me at the funeral. I was never ever attracted to her, and no one knew about my feelings for girls at that age. I hadn’t figured it out fully myself. We used to walk around the Victorian park near her house after school sometimes, talking about whatever. If I got soaked through in the rain she lent me her jeans occasionally. It was a freezing two-mile walk to school and back everyday, a hassle that was appeased by calling for her half way. Her home was always a sanctuary of sorts. So big, warm, homely and slightly eclectic. Not like mine at all really. I remember after her mum died her hall was covered in sympathy cards, all stuck to the wall. The last time I saw Jean, she was dying, it was a few days before she went. Kirsty’s dad said for me to go into the dining room, but I mistakenly went into the lounge as that’s where he usually offered me a seat if Kirsty was taking a while. And there she was, lying back on the couch, all weak and comfy looking. I knew she only had a few days left, and I was so glad to see her one last time. She looked good, the same as she usually did. She wanted Kirsty to buy some dried lavender in town as that’s where we were going. A pointless pursuit maybe, but she bought lavender every year to make Christmas gifts. Little fragrant pomanders and pincushions with it in. I was often the recipient of them. So here I am standing outside their house at exactly the same time of year. I visited their house nearly every weekday morning for 7 years. In autumn it was always best. The smells and the leaves, the open fire. Autumn smells and looks just the same. I’ve already tramped around the park, looked at the monkey-puzzle and all the same trees I used to adore every morning, running sweatily late as usual. I suddenly miss Kirsty, and her running around every morning going mad with her hair and going mad at her mum. I miss standing on the bristly doormat and not being allowed on the warm parke flooring because of the leaves and mud that must be stuck to my shoes. Being proudly shown incubating tortoise eggs or new hatchlings. I have no idea what happened to all of the tortoises. (I could write pages more on my memories of Kirsty, her mum and her surroundings, but I’ll leave it as a small tribute for now.....)
¶ 1:11 am 
