The Creature From The Bottom Of The Garden

The Creature From The Bottom Of The Garden

Plates, bowls, saucepans, spoons, forks and knives dropped into the sink with scraping clunks, d-lops and sploshes. One after another they were moved under the current of her coarse hands in the hot steamy water and swirled around in the washing-up liquid bubbles which softly caressed her wrists. Incessantly she scrubbed and scratched out every little crevice and surface clean of smudged butter, left overs, tea and coffee stains and every trace of saliva. Every thought of tongue, greasy fingerprints and lips that she thought she could see – as if she were a microscope – had to be washed away down the drain to leave the cutlery and crockery sparkling as clear as a xylophone’s ping.

The repetitiveness becomes routine and the routine becomes duty and the duty becomes familiar and the familiarity becomes a sense that becomes so familiar that it makes no demands and does not need to be recalled to the mind again. So, after a point, thoughts can easily drift off into a blissful reverie, through the window, through the trees and into the sky. Peace at last…or at least for a moment.

Her concentration suddenly jolted into focus as she quickly checked, looking out of the window for her son. She would never be able to forgive herself if her day-dreaming made her careless. The panicked look that had flashed into her eyes softened as she was relieved to see he was still innocently toddling around in the garden. He seemed to be trying to catch and hold the dapples of sunlight that sifted through the trees as if they were golden-winged fairies flitting around him. Greenhouse locked – he was fine.

She continued to make the most of savouring this time she had alone. Soon it would be disturbed into the disarray that had to be so tiresomely caught and pinned down and made into sense every day. She looked out again – he was fine.

He hardly ate anything she thought. She caught herself knowing that she was starting to get into an obsessive habit of worrying over every little concern about her son, but she could not help it.

He doesn’t seem to like anything apart from mash potato. She checked again – he was fine.

Mash potato instantly made her think of that low, gruff, silly voice and the mad googly eyes of that puppet Badger from the television programme Bodger and Badger. The image popped up into her mind with the same slap of surprise that Bodger would get around his face with a spoonful of mash potato every single episode. This was an act her little boy tried to copy and threaten her with – with gleeful accomplishment – at the dinner table. This caused her to laugh uncontrollably to herself at the kitchen sink and clutch the side of it in hysterics as her laughter seemed to take hold of her ribcage. This convulsive burst was soon relieved by a sigh, a deep and bittersweet sigh that touched a million regrets, sacrifices and needs which remained unsatisfied.

She looked up – he was not in the garden any more.

Where is he? Her mind started to flicker through all the dreadful possibilities and bluster in a panic through all the solutions.

Is the greenhouse locked? She had to ask herself again and, this time, answered herself with less confidence.

A cold shiver went down her back, trickling down her spine like drops of rain on a window, freezing her blood, making her feel drained of all her energy. Then it coursed back through her and her heart began to beat with the speed of a peal of alarm bells drumming through her body at the thought of all the horrifying consequences of the shears, the secateurs and the bottle of weedkiller. She had to find him.

But before she was about to run out down the garden, wailing and flailing, she heard his feet echoing through the conservatory and rushing into the kitchen.

“Mum! Mum! Mum!” He came in shouting urgently. She gasped out his name and knelt down to swiftly glance over him, confirming no injuries. She had thought he could wear his shorts today as it was such a nice day out, but then she had started to worry that maybe her decision, her stupid, stupid decision, had exposed his legs to the risk of being grazed, stung or scratched. She embraced him, clung on to him with all her being. Kissed his cheeks in little circles and attentively stroked the back of his head. Showing her commitment, shunning away all the anger she had felt at herself. She rocked slightly backwards and forwards in the rhythm of a ship swaying on a calm sea, cradling herself as much as she was cradling him. But he was restless and started to fidget, trying to find ways to wriggle away from her grasp.

“Mum! I’ve foundeded something at the bottom of the garden. You must come and see it! Quick!” he said, pulling at her apron to show that he was very adamant that she should stop whatever she was doing and immediately go and see what he had to show her. His voice was exulting, flying in an unspoilt freedom of bright, twinkling naivety. It was an irresistible optimism which would have painfully clawed through the ears of a pessimist but it delighted his Mother with intrigue. She quickly dried her hands and gladly took hold of his hand and followed him down to the garden.

All the way along the garden path and past the flower beds he was tugging on her fingers. This tightened the suspense within her and excitedly sparked off her imagination. What could possibly be this thing that was making him rush in the fear that whatever he had found might suddenly disappear if they did not move any quicker?

“There!” he said, stopping and pointing at the old fashioned, grey and rust-speckled watering can, next to the greenhouse. She looked first to see if the door of the greenhouse was locked – of course it was. He sulked, tightly crossing his arms as he misinterpreted her concern as a lack of interest in what he had to show her. “Look!” he shouted in frustration, pulling on her sleeve. She looked where he was pointing but all she could see was the watering can. She blinked her eyes as though this would help her see clearer but, still unsure, she decided to squat down to his height in order to be on the same eye-level.

“Um…the watering can?” his Mother asked with an inflection of disbelief in her voice and an underlying feeling that her expectations had been mistakenly elevated.

“No there!” he whispered sharply, pointing more assertively at the top of the watering can. She had, in fact, already noticed the delightful find that her little intrepid explorer had discovered, but had at first discounted it. It was a snail.

When his Mother finally realised that this was what he was excited about she exclaimed “Oh!” with a smile that seemed to grow from ear to ear and flood her face with a rush of joy. She could not help but laugh; exhaling and inhaling short stifled happy snorts through her nostrils as she was amused by the thought that the urgency of her boy was unnecessary for a creature that moves slower than the shadow moves round on a sundial.

“That’s called a snail,” she said as she stared at it with him.

“A snail?” he asked quietly.

“Yes…” she replied softly, sensing his need for her to share in his awe of what he had found.

She looked at her son from the corner of her eye and saw how mesmerised and captivated he was by this creature. She thought it was endearing how his little fingers were fumbling and knotting nervously in his hands, how his eyes were aglitter with fascination and how his feet were so absolutely worried that if he was to move them any further forward, he would disturb the peace and the pace of the snail. As if the snail had the capabilities to bolt away like a startled fawn. This made her think how she had seen many snails in her lifetime and always seen them as little more than an ordinary part of the landscape. But through the bright young eyes of her child she was also sharing his surprise and wonder at encountering for the first time this almost unworldly, almost alien-looking creature. This creature with a pebble-grey slimy and limbless body, with eyes atop of stalks, poking out of a beautiful shell that coiled and swirled in stripes of brilliant turquoise, yellow and black resembling the pattern of a hard-boiled sweet, made her fingers begin to fumble and knot. He might forget this moment, but she knew she would cherish it for the rest of her life.