I didn’t want to visit the old man. Every summer, at the end of August we drove from South London to Oxfordshire. The Chiltern Hills! – my mother would exclaim every time as we transitioned from city to country living. Like the hills were something new and majestic rising up out of the earth, a surprise every summer. Just look at those rolling hills – it’s really something, she would say nodding at me to acknowledge the awe of the countryside. Under her breath, she would whisper, breath-taking, just breath-taking. And, like every year, I’d nod, draw my knees up to my chest, rest my flip-flops on the leather seat of the car and put my nose in my phone. My friends would post about holidays abroad: Barbados, South Africa, Madagascar. Me. Some lousy hills outside of London with the old man.
The house sat in acres of land and was always cold and damp, even in summer. It had been raining and the old man greeted us in his wellies and mac. He wore a coat, even in the heat of the summer. It wasn’t a farm but there was more land than you could ever imagine living in South London.
“Come in. Come in.” The old man said. “Tea is ready. Carrot cake from ‘The Tea Cosy’ too. Best in the village.” He hadn’t changed. His salt and pepper beard tidy but with a hint of scruff.
“Dad. You know we talked about this.” Mum said.
I looked from Mum to the old man. Some secret pact had occurred. She knew I wouldn’t come if I knew I’d be on my own with the old man. She took my suitcase out of the car and put it on the gravel.
“I’ll be back next week.” She said giving the old man a hug.
“Mum!” I whispered through gritted teeth as the old man took my suitcase into the house.
“I have to work this week. It’s only a week. It will go quickly and before you know it, I’ll be back, and we’ll have the whole next week together.”
A week alone with the old man. A week where I could be lying on a sun lounger, drinking mocktails, swimming in pools, getting my nails done, or a hundred other things. Mum’s car sped off and I was left alone with the old man.
“You’ve come at just the right time. We’ll have the tea when we get back.”
“Mmmm.”
“The blackberries are calling.”
“Mmmm.”
“Here, you can’t go over the hills in those.” He said pointing at my flip-flops and handed me some wellies. They must have belonged to the old lady. I zipped open my case and pulled out some socks. The wellies were a bit tight; the old lady must have been small. Smaller than a fourteen-year old. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Shorts and wellies.
“Let’s go.” He said shutting the door.
“Aren’t you going to lock it?” I asked.
“Who’s going to steal anything way out here? Anyways, I haven’t got much to steal.”
Well, I had, I thought. I had my computer, my iPad, my jewellery and clothes all neatly packed in my case ready to steal.
“Please can we lock the door?”
Reluctantly, he took a skeleton key off of a hook by the door and tried to turn the lock. It was stiff but eventually he shifted the catch and the door locked. He slipped the key into his shirt pocket and picked up two large tin pails and pointed at the other two for me. I carried both in one hand and my phone in the other. Reception came and went, and eventually I gave up and pushed the phone in the back pocket of my shorts and carried one pail in each hand.
We walked for what seemed like hours. Along tracks and through fields. The damp remnants of the rain evaporated into the afternoon sky and I wished I’d brought my water bottle. Fresh air, he kept saying, nothing like it, does a world of good. It was hot and my feet sweated in the wellies.
“Watch out for the fairies.” He said as we approached a small bridge over a stream. I laughed. He thought I was five.
“Sure thing. I’ll watch out for the fairies.” I said laughing.
He talked a lot about fighting in the war. Flying spitfires. He was an ace, he said. He talked of his sweetheart. Before the old lady. The love of his life. She was a spy, he said, the best there was. Infiltrated the enemy and helped win the war. Killed in action, sadly, sadly, he would mutter shaking his head. I guessed the old lady wouldn’t have been so happy to hear that his ‘sweetheart’ was the love of his life. The more we walked, the more he talked about the war, getting shot down in enemy territory and being a prisoner.
He stopped. There were briars as far as you could see. In between the prickly shrubs, blackberries hung heavily. He picked several and filled his mouth. The black juice stained his fingers and lips with blood wine stains. He reached out and started filling the first tin pail.
I stepped closer to the briars. Nettles scratched my ankles and I was glad for the old lady’s wellies. I pulled one of the thick blobs off and popped it into my mouth. The sweet juice exploded. I picked another and another. My fingers grew mottled and sticky. The old man hummed as he picked. He must have been hot in his mac. I wished I had put on sunscreen and in between picking, eating and filling the pail, I paused in the small shade of the bushes. I filled one tin quickly, ignoring the thorns that pricked the skin of my arms, my blood mingling with the purple blood of the blackberries.
The old man stopped humming. I turned just as he tilted over, still holding the pail, like he was suddenly shot, blackberry juice dripping from the side of this mouth. He landed with a thud in the nettles and brambles.
I dropped my pail. The blackberries spilled out onto the weeds and grass.
“Grandpa!” I shouted. His eyes were wide and his face stiff. I shook him but there was no response. I ripped my phone out of my back pocket. There was no reception.
“Help!” I shouted. “No! No!”
We were in the middle of nowhere. I pulled the skeleton key out of his shirt pocket. I started to run, key in one hand, phone in the other. The wellies slapped against my calves. Through the fields and tracks and as I reached the fairy bridge, my wellie jammed between the planks of wood and I tripped. I held tight to the key, but my phone landed in the stream. Leaning over, I pulled it out and let the water drip off as I continued running.
The greens of the hills blurred until the house came into view. I shoved the key into the door. It stuck. I couldn’t shift the catch.
“Open, damn it.” I said and wished I hadn’t made him lock the door. The latch shifted. As I called an ambulance, I caught sight of the tea on the table, the carrot cake from ‘The Tea Cosy’, three place settings, the water in the kettle, waiting to boil like a still life painting. Hurry, I said as much as to the emergency operator as to myself. I closed the door, and left the key on the hook and the door unlocked.
It felt like I was gone a long time. It couldn’t have been that long. But the sun had shifted and when I returned, Grandpa and the spilled blackberries were withering in the sun. The flesh of the once plump blackberries, broken, spread out in the grass rotting. The sweetness seeping into the ground, the remains, sour. And Grandpa, lying still, as if part of the earth already.
Inspired by: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney
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The Gold Shoe Writer 