Past Time

Future ~

The gusty gasps of air that rattled through the tree boughs had turned cool. Instead of the incessant rustling; the slow sigh escaping the trees were as weary as their crinkled leaves. The ground was carpeted with ruined foilage. But instead of muting the sound of footfall to a muffled thud, it revealed itself as a sharp shuffle, and the sound of delicate, dead leaves tearing. A brown leaf, still tinged with deep maroon at the very base, was dangling precariously by its stem. The next breath of wind broke it silently away from its perch and carried it in its arms, spiraling down, away, down, away. It neared the ground, brushed it with one of its five tips, and settling contently into its new place. A second of stillness ensued, and then, it was crushed. The two boots marched on oblivious to the scattering remnants of leaf it left behind. The path to the cemetery was lined with oaks, beeches, maples and all the other wondrous deciduous life forms that turned a pavement of concrete blocks into a canvas of splashing color. In fact, one could hardly see the grey, lined blocks now. A sea of shed leaves smothered the dull tone of concrete. It was rather like snow, except brown. It was a clear day; the sky was white with the pearly cleanness of winter.

A coated figure trudged his way between the rows of trees. His hands were buried deep within the warmth of his pockets, his arms held closely to his side. His head and shoulders were stooped, either from habit or from the incline of the path. Heavy boots concealed muscled calves, the great black trench coat supported by his build accentuated his height. A black bowler hat, so uncommon in these times, adorned the crown of his head. All that was missing was the wooden pipe at his lips. He is actually quite much older than this image reveals him to be. At sixty, he still had the physic of a fourty year old, albeit a little rounder about the middle. It was his pride and joy to watch his colleagues gape at his achievements in the gym. He chuckled a little as the path smoothed out at last, and the last trees gave way to a quaint white picket fence. It was so like her to choose such a place.

He wandered slowly through the rows of headstones, white granite things, so plain and strangely comforting. Each little patch was accompanied by a bush or flower of sorts growing beside it, the older graves recognizable by their much bigger plants. He looked, but did not read them. He knew he could tell right away if it was the one he was looking for. Sure enough, he stopped at the first grave that seemed out of place amongst all the others. The headstone was in shape of a cherub with wide spread wings, holding a scroll. And sure enough, this was the one he was looking for. Contented to leave the white, pink lined carnation that had been shielded from the wind in his left breast pocket; he stood again, and headed towards the church he knew was on the far side of the cemetery.

******

She watched as the coins from his hand twinkled into the silver dish. There were eleven; no more no less, every time, everyday, every week, every month. It had been four months since the first day he came to this church. She remembers that day well; it had been a good day. He had come everyday since, with eleven shillings. It was always eleven shillings. He would stand there, gazing upwards, his vision cutting straight through the alter to land on the stained glass window making up the back wall. He seemed endlessly fascinated by the angel, shining in its glassy glory, haloed by the light of the evening sun. She didn’t understand why he had to stare at it for quarter of an hour everyday. Afterwards, he would move slowly away, tearing his eyes from the angel, reluctant, slow. And then the shillings would be dropped, one by one, ritually into the donation dish.

But today would be different. She must make him understand, that what ever regrets he had, he could not buy his way to god. There was only repentance, then forgiveness. She walked towards him as he finished dropping the last shilling into the dish, watching it, mesmerized as it landed with a twang, rolling, rocking, and then settling with a metallic reverberation. A sudden feeling of awkwardness swept up her spine. It was as if this was a private moment, sacred, something she should not intrude upon. However, as she was lost in this new feeling, he had turned towards her, with a smile on his face. She noted how his eyes twinkled under the folded weight of his dropping eyelids, how the creased mouth revealed pearly white teeth. She steeled herself.

“Sir, you cannot buy your way to repentance”

He looked puzzled. Then the irksome feeling was lifted off his face with a low, melodic rumble of laughter.

“No, no, none of this is from me. I’m simply here for a friend, it was his will.”

The awkward feeling spiked. He had said “will”. His friend had died. But she was curious; he had been one of the only visitors she had seen since she started volunteering at the church.

The sunset saw them walking out of the church doors together, a tall, brooding man, and a young woman, of no more than twenty five years.
******

They met again on Saturday, but this time at a local café. The spring chill had not yet lifted its hold, and a thin sheen of vapor fogged the window looking out onto the busy street. The young woman hugged a cup of hot cocoa in her hands, the steam rising lazily into the air, curling and wispy. The elderly man had ordered breakfast, and was currently digging in to the toast and toasted mushrooms with the vigor of robust youth. The woman alternated between the muted ringing of cutlery against china, and the crackling of the log fire. It was quite some while before he would talk. Finally, he set down the knife and fork, and then picking up his coffee, which was slightly cooler than how he liked it. Sipping the coffee, he proceeded to stare out the window. She stared at him, slightly annoyed. It was only when she made an impatient noise that he turned again, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Youths these days, so impatient”

“Its not like all of us has forever”

“Well, aren’t you going to ask what you’ve been dying to ask for the last… three months?”

“You know what I’m going to ask anyway, so why don’t you just tell me”

The man chuckled, shaking his head in mirth. He cleared his throat, eyes glazing over as his conscious delved into his mind, drawing up the events that had happened so long ago.

*******

They had been best mates, Robin and him. They grew up together, had played together, ate together, taken the same classes, been involved in the same pranks, drove their parents to insanity together. They had gone to the same school, were in the same class, and had the same friends. Everyone said they were long lost twins, but they knew they were more than that. It was fun, living life together. But they had also met the same girl in the same college. They always said that the best of mates were driven apart only by mutual love of a woman. Even though they were very much the same, some differenced had made themselves quite distinct. He had been taller, stronger, more rugged in looks, while his best friend had been the one with charm. She had liked him better; his best friend had loved her more. He hadn’t been interested. It was the start of them drifting apart. They had ultimately pursued different careers, ended up in different countries, mixing with different social classes, until suddenly, he found that he hadn’t contacted his best friend in twenty years.

When he had finally tracked down that twin of his, all he found was a tombstone and a will. He himself had made a name for himself, and a sizable bank account. His twin had done no less, no more. Neither had family, neither had kids. One was dead, the other, very much alive. A final request had been sealed in a little, hand written, hand decorated envelope, intricate, beautiful and hardly like the work of a man. But it had been the twin alright. It had to be. He was told to find the girl, the same one that had been to college with them. He said he had met her again, at a bar, singing. He wanted to look after her, love her, but she had taken offence, thinking her wanted to buy her with his money. So she had fled, and had been lost in the crowd. The twin, still pining after news of her, had left her half of the contents of his bank account. The request was a request to deliver, secretly, the amount over the rest of her life, eleven shillings a day. And she had finally been found, and cannot run now. He had her forever, until he joined them six feet under, and he wasn’t going to any time soon. Thus, here he was with his eleven shillings a day, everyday. The amount meant almost nothing now, but had been quite an achievement some years ago.

With a flourish of a handkerchief being whipped out of his pocket, the story ended. The young woman looked intrigued.

“What was her name?”

“You mean the college girl?”

“Yes, who else?”

“Her name was Rina Wiles”

Her eyes widened a fraction.

He noticed. He pretended not to. Silence lingered. It was only then that the man realized he did not even know the name of his companion, or she, his.

“What’s your name?”

The woman seemed reluctant to speak. She opened her mouth, frowned, closed it, and then turned to retrieve something from her bag. The cocoa was forgotten on the side of the table. It was cold anyway. She slipped a business card out of her purse. Her hand was poised in mid air, gently flicking the textured stencil grasped in her finger. Her expression was meditative, as if she was struggling to remember something, to understand a concept that lingered on the edge of her mind, out of grasp and yet indefinitely close. The words came out, eventually, singular in its coherence, syllabic and hesitant.

“I’m… Tina Wiles… my mother mentioned you once, I think.”

Porcelaine

I used to know this girl down on Angel Parade.
She would come early in the morning and set up her stand space in the open market.
And out of her bicycle basket and a box in the back, she'd take out all sorts of wonderous breakables.
Girls walking to school would stare at delicate glass swans with entwined necks and crystal feathers.
Boys walking past would stare rapturously at epicly posed soccer players frozen in translucent, unmelting ice.
And they'd all coo over the little porcelaine hearts tinted pink and blue, couples staring loving at them as they fingered the smoothness of its exterior.
It even came in it's very own box.
She'd smile at them all as they passed by, looking wistfully as they left, hand in hand.

She'd come late one morning, with a bloody scrape down one white limb where her bike had tipped.
The bike itself didn't look too battered, unlike the basket and the box with her wares.
At the sight of her shaky hands delicately removing pieces of shattered glass and porcelain, our hearts went out to her.
But even with so many hands, not all could be assembled to resemble any of it's former glory.
We were left with a pile of broken hearts.
Dejected, thus we left to go on our ways; there was nothing more to do.
Her unshed tears stung our hearts.
The way her hands folded morosely in her lap made us feel even more helpless.

Imagine our surprise, upon returning that afternoon, to see a crowd gathered around her stand.
Two little boxes for one broken heart. Two people each possessing half.
Going off, as ever, hand in hand.
Love.