His Offering

His Offering

He had seen it from some way off: the village church with its ancient round tower waiting behind high, flint cobble walls.
Walking with a parcel of cut flowers for his mum’s grave, John remembered his Nan’s suggestion to pop in the church as, “It’s full of beautiful flowers.”
So when they reached the church gate, he turned to his ruddy-faced Grandfather and asked,
“Shall we go in the church first, Grandad?”
“What do you want to go in there for?” the old man asked, surprised, “There’s nothing worth seeing.”
Not knowing what to say after his Nan’s enthusiasm, John turned and walked on past the church entrance.

As they went around the rear of the church the old man spoke again, “Good, Frank’s left me his mower out – he said he would.”
From the back of the church, it was only a short walk to the grave of mother and daughter, the sight of which always filled John’s eyes. The old man offered him the mower, but John didn’t want to cut the grass on his mum’s grave,”Doesn’t feel right walking over…”
His Grandfather looked at the patch of grass and the sad headstone,
“Can’t hurt her now,” he said, and set to trimming the plot.

Selecting some flowers from the bundle he carried and, breaking the stalks to size, John popped them into a small pot “From John and Colin” that sat tucked up against his mum’s stone. This done he asked his Grandfather what to do with the left over blooms. The old man looked at the Chrysanthemums he’d cut in his garden just that morning, and said,” Plenty of time before your Nan has lunch ready. Let’s go and give my Dad’s plot a look over.”
Taking the mower with them, they made their way – first along the clearly defined paths by the newer graves with their neatly trimmed grass and handfuls of bright colour, and then turned onto the less certain paths around the older burial plots. Here long grass and subsidence hid the edges of some graves, so John kept his head down watching where he put his feet not wanting to stumble over …. someone. His Grandfather walked steadily, but respectfully on, without looking down.

By one large, black stone of polished marble, John noticed the remains of a bunch of flowers, brown with age, surrounded by long grass.
“That one”, the old man said, “He’s no people living ‘round here anymore to look after him. Frank used to come down this end once a week to cut the grass and clear things up a little until the vicar told him not to. Frank said the vicar ‘wanted to encourage the wildlife!’”

A few more steps and they were at a small group of plain, but well looked after stones. “Here we are then,” the old man said.
He started to trim the grass around the plot and together they rubbed down the bird be-speckled granite with newspaper, changed the flowers and checked the water level in the flower vase.

When they’d finished the old man stepped back, pulling on his coat lapels with thumb and forefinger as he looked at his Dad’s stone.
“Yes, poor Dad died from a rusty tack that came out of a boot he was mending and got stuck in his leg. Only a small cut but it swelled right up and the doctor said it was blood poisoning. They tried what they could but they didn’t have antibiotics or penicillin back then.”
John had seen the cobblers’ last hanging above the bench in his grandparents’ shed.

“ Better Get on then” his Grandad said and taking his pipe from a coat pocket he opened a new pouch of aromatic tobacco. When John smelt its sweet incense on the air he followed his grandfather, back towards the newer part of the graveyard
Back on the newer side, his grandfather stopped and pointed with the bowl of his pipe towards the remains of some flowers – just stalks now – that lay scattered around one memorial.
“Do you see that boy, that’s wildlife for you! Bloomin’ rabbits coming in from the fields. If I had my way I wouldn’t “encourage” the wildlife, I’d get a gun to them!”

After returning the mower to the place beside the church where he’d found it, the old man dug a plastic bottle out of a hideaway he had in amongst thicket that grew around one of the yew trees running in a line that separated the newer part of the graveyard from the old.
Filling it from the churchyard tap, he put water into John’s mother’s grave vase and watered a few other offerings he saw wilting nearby.

John’s Grandfather pointed to one corner of the churchyard where a plain stone cross, sat by a low mound of earth, “Looks like another one up from the prison.” Beyond this and two rows of similar crosses, John noticed a gap in the hedge through which he glimpsed the village school.

Their tasks finished, John and the old man walked towards the church gateway where John saw a notice for a Harvest Festival Service the next Sunday.
John remembered the Harvest Festival, from the time he went to the village school. The teachers asked everyone to bring some “non-perishable” food to school the week before Harvest Festival Sunday, so a display could be put together to go up to the church.

John had been sent to school with a tin of pineapple, others had brought tin peaches and pears. One or two boys had brought baked bean tins, but these ended up at the back of the display, too ordinary, too everyday for such a special service.

Turning to his Grandfather he asked,” Did you ever take me to this?”
“Harvest Festival service,” the old man read. ”No! Never saw any point in taking you John. All that ‘Praise the Lord!’ “

“Hi there, Gil!” said an elderly man from behind them.
“Oh, Hi Frank – we didn’t see you in the churchyard.”
“No you wouldn’t have I’ve just been in the church. The wife’s got involved in the floral displays for Harvest Festival this year – it’s starting to look really nice in there.” He thought for a moment and then asked, “Do you think you and the wife will come to the harvest service on Sunday?”
“Don’t think I will Frank,” his Grandfather said, adding, “But I will ask Mabel if she’ll bring some flowers down before Sunday.”

“Right you are then Gil, bye now,” and with a smile, Frank walked back towards the church doorway.
Taking his pipe from his mouth, the old man tapped the bowl against the heel of his shoe, to empty out the ashes, “Time to get back for lunch, then boy”.

The End