Shadows

They used to meet in a garden full of withering flowers and stinging nettles, running along the washing line which had so long ago drooped through lack of use, and could now be the pathway between truth and lies, or heaven and hell, or life and death: anything they wanted. The house used to belong to her mother – dead – and her father – escaped to Peru, of all places – but then it was hers, and hers alone. They enjoyed the times they spent there, away from the world: two orphans cradled together under the strong, stern, fatherly oak tree. In its shadows, they laughed.1

When they grew up, they stopped seeing each other quite as often. He had no education, and was destined to do nothing with his pitiful little life, while she had been home-schooled in the years before her mother’s death, and decided to enrol in some adult education courses at the local college.2

When she graduated, she sought him in his usual place – outside one of the shops on the high street, curled up in a woollen blanket, relying on the kindness of strangers for food and money. But he was not there, that time, not there to see her rosy, happy cheeks or the smile which flittered on her face for only a short while before being blown away like a feather: just as light, just as insubstantial. 3

When she walked away, her high-heels clattered against the pavement like a drumbeat. She wiped a tear away with a hand decorated with too many glistening rings, and vowed to forget him. She had her own life, and she would live it without him. 4

She married – a handsome, rich man with a well-paying job and a big house in the centre of town. She had told her mind to forget him, and so it did – there was not even a glint of recognition in her eyes when she passed him on the way out of the church, hair tangled with confetti, and those self-same high-heels rhythmically throbbing like his heart. 5

He loved her, and had done so since those early days. Nothing could stop that. They could be together, couldn’t they? He followed her home, the directions imprinting themselves upon each corner of his mind. He would not forget her.6

She had completely forgotten him: now, when she recalled those shadowy days in the garden, she was alone and happy to be so. Now, though, contentment came from being with her husband – cooking for him, cleaning the house they had furnished together. Nights under sheets, now, rather than under stars, and electric lights instead of the glowing orb of the moon. Her life was comfortable and cosy, and she had everything she could need.7

Then, one night, they ran out of milk. He suggested that they would do without until morning – it was only a cup of tea that they wanted it for, anyway – but she insisted that the walk to the corner-shop would do her good. It would be nice, she said, to stroll beneath the slowly rolling clouds with the moon a pin-point of light trickling through them. 8

She put on the faux-fur coat that he had bought for her last Christmas, dropped her hand into one pocket to check that her purse was still there (it was) and sauntered out into the biting air. She immediately wished that she had worn more than her favourite black dress under the coat – it really was too cold. But she clutched at the coat, closing it in around her shivering body, and walked on. Preoccupied, she walked straight past the waif-like figure huddled up against the wall of the house next-door, half-lost in shadows and shifting lamplight. But, on seeing her, he got to his feet and followed, his soft footsteps tranquilised by the pulse of hers. 9

A labyrinth of street corners stood between them and the corner-shop, and he could not stop staring at the golden hair which cascaded down her back. Such beauty is dangerous, stirring up long-concealed feelings which are better left untouched. 10

She ducked down a narrow alleyway and he pursued her, love giving strength to his tired feet. But at the end she turned, realising her mistake – a dead-end – and now she was trapped between a wall and a dusky form with steady, staring eyes. He stumbled forwards, overcome with emotion. Here was his darling, the one he had held close in a garden of shadows. Cars rushed by, and she silently appealed to them for help. Who was this man? A vagrant, a vagabond, a wanderer? 11

He leaned in close, took her quivering head between his rough, frosty hands... and kissed her. A shrill scream erupted from her lips, and he pulled away. She did not remember. She had grown, and left him behind.12

She ran, and he was too dazed to come after her. What must she think of him? A stranger, an unknown, a... 13

He turned at the sound of the drumbeat ceasing. She had fallen. She had tripped over the line between life and death, and now lay broken beneath the wheels of a car.14

Its headlights faded as he sobbed his life away. He sank to the floor, his arms swinging helplessly like the washing-line, before it fell, before the whole thing started. Finally, they came to rest, and when they did, he was no more.15

She awoke to find her husband sitting nearby, his hands over his face. Why did he cry? Then it all came back. Darkness, flickering light, fluttering footsteps, falling...16

The man she loved did not sit beside her hospital bed. The man she loved could never do so. Now she remembered the feeling of being with another, in a garden of stinging nettles and withered flowers and a washing line which could be the boundary between any opposites they chose. She wanted to return to those carefree days of laughter, and a boy whose love was pure, whom she had held so close.  17