This is the photograph I put
in the newsagent's window. I thought I would mind, but I didn’t.
It's strange, but I had no qualms whatsoever about getting
rid of the thing. I only wished I'd done it sooner. I hated
it. I had hated it since the day it happened and wished over
and over again that it was possible to turn the clock back.
It's not as if we couldn't have managed without a summer playhouse;
I simply wanted Abi to have one. I know that, with her being
so young, she will remember virtually nothing of it all when
she is older, but it seemed so dreadful that for the first
three years of her life she had known nothing but fierce quarrelling.
When he finally walked out, I decided I wanted to get her
a garden playhouse – not as compensation for the father
she would no longer have, but as an apology for all the misery
and disruption to her little life and as a way of marking
the start of a new and happy period of it. I have regretted
that decision so bitterly and have spent this last year apportioning
blame, both fairly and unfairly, for the outcome.
Well-meaning people so often say 'You mustn't blame yourself,’
but I do. I blame others too: the manufacturers for their
prices, which made me take up my father's offer of a home-made
playhouse; my husband, for not being there to take the job
on himself; Dad, for never having let on to me his true state
of health (the doctor said, afterwards, that Dad had known
for some time that any unusual exertion could have resulted
in such an attack); and, most unfairly of all I suppose, Abi,
for being the reason for it all.
I don't really remember just how and when the project first
came about. Dad and I had always been close and became more
so when we lost Mum. Neither Mum nor Dad had approved of my
choice of husband and no doubt it brought them more sadness
than surprise when the relationship started its decline.
Latterly, once I had become a single parent, I think Dad felt
a mixture of relief and concern for me. We had lost Mum by
then and I know he enjoyed coming round regularly to help
me with the trickier jobs around the house.
In return, Abi and I would give him the sort of meals I knew
he would never treat himself to at home and, though he would
protest, we would do the odd grocery shop for him. Dad thought
the world of Abi and she of him, and I'm sure he was the one
who first thought of making a summer house for her.
We both became quite absorbed in the project and kept it strictly
to ourselves, like a pair of secretive children. Each of us
was as excited about it as the other and its various stages
of progress helped us both through some difficult times. I
had seen the sort of house I wanted and shown it to Dad, who
enthusiastically began work on one for Abi. His carpentry
skills proved more than adequate and it was not long before
the vision we shared so happily began to turn into reality.
Nor was I without a useful role. While Dad worked away on
the house itself, I contented myself with going out at every
opportunity, foraging for all the things we would need to
furnish the little house. (All the things, that is, that are
now packed away in the carton to go with it.)
The house was to have been for Abi's birthday. One day shortly
before, I had made arrangements for her to be looked after,
so that Dad and I could put the finishing touches on the house
and get it into position. As with all these things, I suppose,
we encountered a few stumbling blocks along the way and towards
the end found ourselves working against time. But finally
it was finished and Dad and I were thrilled with it. All that
then remained was for my various furnishings to be added,
which we would tackle when we had stopped for a break. I left
Dad sitting on a stool on the little porch, with his cup of
tea, while I popped back to my kitchen to get some biscuits.
It seemed odd that he didn't turn and smile or wave, as he
normally would, when I returned across the garden, but I put
it down to tiredness. Only when I got closer did a chill run
through me and I knew. There was no distress or pain on his
face and his hands still held the mug of tea.
The lady who phoned about the advert has just pulled up in
her car. It looks quite ostentatious and out of place in our
road. In fact, as she emerges from it, everything about her
does. She is overdressed, heavily made up and weighed down
with jewellery, as though attending some opening ceremony,
and clearly finds my garden path, with all its cracks, awkward
for her stilettos. Her gaze falls momentarily on my T-shirt
and denims as she adjusts her hair, bangles jangling, her
perfume overpowering, and shakes my hand limply, her smile
not quite reaching her eyes. She casts a critical eye over
the garden, noting, I am sure, the weeds I have missed and
the unmanicured edges and pronounces it 'charming, and such
a manageable size'.
I lead her as quickly as possible through the house, regretting
not having thought to close doors. She observes each room
brazenly as we pass by and compliments me on my 'dear little
house'.
'Your children?' she prompts.
'One,' I say. 'A little girl. She is poorly, upstairs, at
the moment'.
'Oh dear!' She gives a nervous giggle and it is apparent from
her expression that her concern is more for herself than the
child. Earlier I had feared questions about my reasons for
selling, but none come, for which I am glad.
We arrive at the playhouse, which she declares 'delightful!'
And I wait while she inspects it more closely. She continues
to examine it from each angle.
'It's perhaps a teeny bit smaller than I imagined,’
she says.
'I gave the measurements in the advert,’ I reply defensively.
'Oh yes, yes, certainly,’ she says, her tone forgiving.
'No, there's no doubt it's a dear little house, but perhaps
you are asking rather too much for it. It is, after all, quite
a basic little summer house'.
I wonder why she has responded to the advert, feeling as she
does, and find it hard to conceal my irritation.
'It is a home-made summer house and a great deal of time and
effort went into it.’ (I could have added 'and love’,
but the point would be utterly lost on her.)
'Oh, I dare say, I dare say,’ she presses on. 'But I
mean, what did it actually cost to make?'
Her nerve staggers me less than the message which suddenly
comes through so clearly. But of course! How could I not have
seen it until now?
'Too much,’ I reply. She gazes at me.
'I'm sorry?' Her eyes are cold and uncomprehending.
'It cost too much,’ I repeat unhelpfully. I don't feel
inclined to elaborate or explain. 'I've changed my mind about
selling,’ I say. 'I've no doubt you'll find plenty of
others for sale elsewhere.’
She does not leave immediately or quietly, but, as she picks
her way, crossly, back down the garden path, I feel an overwhelming
sense of gratitude to her for enabling me to see what I have
been blind to for so long. Of course I cannot sell the house
after all that Dad put into making it. It must stay and be
the wonderful present for Abi that he intended it to be. Nor
must I persist with my notion that the summer house was his
killer. Yes, he happened to die as he did; but he could equally
have died playing his last round of golf or picking up his
morning paper. I must stop seeking to blame anyone or anything
for his death and, instead, get on with life as he would wish.
I am taking another photograph now – of Abi's little
house, standing cheerfully in the sun. It is no longer plain,
empty and unwanted, but furnished, busy and happy. It has
a little kitchen in it, where Abi often plays, a small table
and chairs and red gingham curtains at the windows.
Wind chimes hang from the eaves and there is a colourful planted
pot in one corner of the porch. In the other is a small chair,
where I sometimes sit to enjoy my coffee.
|
| Shortlisted
Julie Burville, St Margaret’s Bay, Dover, Kent; Vivian
Edwards, Newhaven Harbour, East Sussex; Yvonne Jackson, South
Kilvington, Thirsk, North Yorkshire; Patty Lafferty, Seaton,
Devon; Laurie McTaggert, Newcastle-upon-Tyne; Julie Murphy,
Glenfarg, Perthshire; Don Nixon, Albrighton, Wolverhampton;
Helen G Oliver, Leominster, Herefordshire; D Patterson, Norwich;
Bryan Potter, Tunbridge Wells, Kent; Alan Russell, Ringwood,
Hampshire; Francis Thomas White, Horfield, Bristol; Leila
Wilson, Knaresborough, North Yorkshire; Stanley Wright, Calne,
Wiltshire.
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