Ivy
By Canonette
- 1656 reads
Ivy (A fairy tale for grown-ups)
Ivy is taking over the north facing wall of the cottage; working its green tendrils into the loose mortar, wheedling its way in through the peeling wooden window frames; smothering the rosy brickwork with verdant, unchecked growth; suffocating my home with its exuberant desire for life.
Examining the façade of glossy, heart-shaped leaves, I wonder at its stealth and decide it has to go. The lush parasite destroys its host eventually and I don’t want to repoint my brickwork this summer.
My boots crunch gravel as I make my way towards the ramshackle outhouses that form a courtyard in front of Magpie Cottage. They were used as stables for a while, but now house my tools and gardening equipment. I rummage around for my gloves, tool belt, folding saw and secateurs and then drag the ladders to north wall, prop them against the guttering and climb up to attack the creeping greenery.
There is the occasional bleat of a sheep in the distance, but otherwise the sweltering summer air is undisturbed by noise or movement, apart from my own. Earlier, I’d heard the whine of a neighbour’s lawn mower, but they’d sensibly started work before the heat became stifling. As trickles of sweat run down my brow and sting my eyes, I’m beginning to regret even starting.
My movements become drowsy and I work ever more slowly, as though the tangle of ivy is drawing me in. My efforts are less focused on hacking it away, than attempting to unravel it. I discard my gloves and let them fall to the ground below. My bare fingers work at the pale cables of growth, which curl and knot themselves in supple spirals. They are warm and vital and my work becomes a rhythmic tune, as I isolate a single strand at a time and snip it away.
The effect is almost trance like and I don’t notice another person’s presence, until she’s standing there at the foot the ladder, shading her eyes with a slender hand.
“I’m lost,” she calls. “Can you give me directions?”
She is wearing the skimpiest of summer dresses, which reveals long limbs, toned by exercise. My arms ache from exertion and my throat is dry and aggravated by dust from the ivy, so I decide to climb down the ladder to make a drink. I offer her one too and she nods and smiles. She is burning in this sun, she says, dipping a pale shoulder towards me to reveal more cleavage and tilting her head to unleash curling blonde tresses from the messy coil of her hair.
She follows me past flower beds overflowing with blooms: love-in-a-mist, granny’s bonnet, verbena bonariensis. She gushes with enthusiastic admiration for its burgeoning growth, the abundance and variety of flowers, and I reply that it takes care of itself. The plants self-seed and spread – I simply weed out those growing in the wrong place.
There is a flash of black across our path and my cat, Cassandra, freezes in front of the stranger. Her normally sleek black fur stands up along her back and she bares her teeth to hiss a warning.
“Cassie – that’s no way to greet a visitor,” I laugh. She shoots off across the lawn and I cast the woman an apologetic glance. She seems not to notice, her demeanour is as aloof and her skin as smooth as the statue of Artemis that overlooks my rose beds.
I need some respite from the heat and so I suggest that we take our drinks into the sitting room. Its low, oak beamed ceiling seems intimate and cave-like after the cornucopia of blooms outside, as we sit beside each other on the sofa. I discover that her name is Pamela, but her quest for directions is soon forgotten; her bare thigh occasionally rubbing against my denim clad one as we talk about the house and ourselves, until eventually her cool fingers reach out to entwine themselves in mine.
………………………
Violet light tints the lime-washed walls of my bedroom, as the sound of clattering from the kitchen rouses me from sleep. I wonder if Cassie is chasing a mouse or a bird; she often brings in half-dead things, which she torments until they give up the will to live. The dawn chorus floats in through the open window on the subtlest of breezes; it’s going to be another sweltering day.
I turn over and the scent of her perfume mingles with the sharp tang of sweat which now permeates the bed sheets. I favour white linen and notice with distaste that her make-up has tainted the pillowslip with coloured streaks and a tracery of blonde curls mark the hollow where she slept. I reach for my silk robe, but it is not in its usual place. Disgruntled, I slip into yesterdays’ jeans and t-shirt and make my way downstairs.
She is standing at the hob with her back towards me. I’m surprised to see her there, at home in my surroundings; glossy hair twisted around the crown of her head, her strong white legs and bare feet beneath paisley silk. My robe, I notice with annoyance. I had expected her to sneak off before I awoke. There was no sense of longevity in last night’s encounter. In my mind it was just a passionate interlude. Like a cereus cactus or ‘princess of the night’; I thought it would be a flower that bloomed for an evening.
Pamela turns, frying pan in hand, and walks towards me. She doesn’t stop to acknowledge my presence, but heads for the kitchen table. I turn to follow her with my eyes and discover with astonishment that there are two young girls seated there. She slides the fried eggs out onto their plates and the awaiting slices of toast, while they watch me warily; their eyes are blue, just like hers. I’m confused and repulsed at the sight of them; so alike and so like her, as though propagated in perfect miniature.
“I’ve put them in the second bedroom,” she says. “I didn’t think you were using it.”
I run upstairs to check and it just as she said; the twin beds are unmade and each has left a trace of their sleeping forms in the soft mattresses, the hollowed out shape of children’s bodies where they have lain.
Fuming, I run down the stairs and burst into the kitchen to confront her. I find the sink full of washing-up, but the room is empty. I look through the window and see that the girls are chasing Cassandra around the garden from shrub to shrub, screaming noisily, while their mother contorts her lithe body into yoga poses on the lawn.
“You can’t stay here!” I shout, as she twists and cranes her head to look up at me, from the down dog position.
Unruffled, she continues with her exercises in the shade of the lilac tree. The children’s cornflower eyes are upon me, but they soon return to their game, laughing, and I feel as though I’ve been dismissed.
I walk round the corner of the house to cool off and stand there pulling at clinging stems of ivy in frustration. Like bloodless veins overwhelming the neat tessellation of red brickwork, the strands of life come away in my hand, leaving the pale scars of its former presence. In a frenzy of disgust, I denude the masonry of its leafy imprisonment, working away with frantic fingers, until they are sore and bleeding. The pain brings me out of rage induced trance, and I stop to look at what has been revealed, nestled in a bower of knotted green cables.
I have uncovered an exquisite nest of woven stems and resting inside are the remnants of three broken eggs, one large and two perfect smaller copies, in fragile speckled blue.
[This is a rewrite of an older story].
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Comments
Brilliantly described - both
Brilliantly described - both the beauty and the not so beautiful. I didn't want it to end. Nice to see you back again Canonette
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So much to enjoy here!
So much to enjoy here!
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This gloriously sardonic
This gloriously sardonic fairytale, from Canonette, is our facebook and twitter pick of the day! Do share.
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I remember this story,
I remember this story, Wonderful then and wonderful now.
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