The Picnic Field

George appeared at Granny’s. George was seven, and Granny lived next-door-but-one. It had been decided that George could now go round, with permission, without Granny being asked first. That meant taking pot luck; Granny out, having dinner, being grumbly about something, too busy to stop and talk. But mostly George slipped easily into whatever was going on, like stepping onto a gently rising escalator. Collecting vegetables from the allotment to make soup, baking maids-of-honour with chocolate hazelnut spread instead of jam, or making a birthday card and envelope for someone special. She liked being round at Granny’s, not least because her brother Charlie was too young to come round with her, so she could feel part of the adult world for a while, and talk of bigger things with deeper meanings.
Also, at present, Granny’s daughter Catherine was visiting, and she was great fun, not least because she had a see-through plastic box crammed full of makeup, which George was sometimes allowed to experiment with. It was much more exciting than Mum’s, for there was a massive jumble of lipsticks and eye-shadows in maroons and gothic purples, mascaras in different shades, and sparkly false eyelashes. There was a small tin with leaves in different greens enamelled on the lid. It was full of tiny stick-on patches in the shape of stars, diamonds and crescent moons, all in glittering colours. Once, Catherine had let George have some on, and she had chosen two hearts in rainbow colours, which she had stuck on her ear lobes, and another, a shimmering blue teardrop, placed carefully under her left eye. She was sullen with her Mum at bath time when they had to be washed off, even though she knew that she couldn’t wear them for school the next day.
George had been thinking of the makeup as she walked round to Granny’s, and especially the patches, as it was Disco night at school. She even thought she might get away with some mascara, (the false eyelashes were too much to hope for – George was a realist). However, her hopes were dashed as Catherine was out. Still, thought George, ever the optimist, “Catherine may appear before I have to go home.” George decided to linger as long as possible, and remain hopeful. She pondered briefly on why she had never called Catherine ‘Auntie’, and couldn’t find an answer, except that ‘Catherine’ felt comfortable.
Granny was in the kitchen, and, on seeing George, said “Brilliant timing, I’m just starting shortbreads.” Seamlessly, George phoned Mum to say she was staying, got a stool to stand on, took boots off, rolled up sleeves, washed hands and was ready to start. When they were alone together, busy, was when the big conversations usually happened. They often started small, and grew, like carefully nourished children.
“We’re doing about Buddhists in RE,” said George, after a floury quiet. “Grandad Darford was a Buddhist once,” said Granny. George was surprised, and thought about that for a while. She used to believe that everyone in the world believed in God, and when they died they went to heaven. Then in RE there were studies about Muslims, Jews, Hindus and now Buddhists, and everyone seemed to believe in different things. It was all very perplexing. “How could he be a Buddhist once? Was he born one?” “No” said Granny. “His parents weren’t religious, and only went to church for special events such as weddings.” “And funerals” said George. “And funerals” said Granny. “So when then?” puzzled George. “Not till he was grown up. He met some people who were Buddhists, and he saw that they lived good, kind caring lives, and he wanted to be the same.” “So can people just change to a different religion whenever they want to?” asked George. She was already thinking of the delicately patterned hands and the dazzling saris of the two Hindi women who had come into school during Divali. As if she had read George’s mind, Granny said “What you believe deep inside is the real you, and can’t be changed by putting a new religion on like a set of bright clothes.” George’s cheeks coloured very slightly, and she applied herself with renewed concentration to the rolling pin.
It wasn’t until the biscuits were in the oven that she spoke again. “Did Grandad Darford really believe in reincarnation?” “I don’t know,” said Granny. “I’m sure he wanted to.” “Isn’t that the same?” asked George. “No, wanting to believe is not the same as believing, is it? Being able to believe is what faith is. It’s a bit like ice skating,” Granny laughed. “Wanting to be good at skating is not the same thing as being able to skate, and it involves a lot of falling over before you get there.” Granny’s laughter somehow gave George the courage to ask something that had been worrying her for a long time. “Granny, do you believe that you’ll go to heaven when you die?” George had an anxious face, and a trace of tears welling in her eyes, and Granny, who didn’t think of herself as quite ancient yet, suddenly realised that to George, she must seem really old. And of course, Great Grandad Tanswell had died the year before, and a child’s fears grow with each day that they’re not shared.
“I’ve tried very hard to believe in heaven,” said Granny, when at last they were settled with tea and shortbreads, “And so far I haven’t quite managed it. It seems so unfair to me that so many people should be left out, just because they don’t believe. I think it would be fairer if everyone could go to heaven, whatever their religion, so long as they’d tried hard to live good, kind lives. So, because I haven’t found a way to believe yet, I did what I’ve always done since I was a child. I’ve made up a story to chase away my fears, and give me comfort.”
“There are millions of people in the world, and the way I see it, you can divide them up into three groups. There are the people we know, our family, neighbours and friends – that’s the tiny group. Then there’s the much bigger group of people that we’ve heard of but don’t know personally, -- I bet you can think of lots of those!” “You mean like pop stars, and presidents, that kind of thing?” said George. “Yes,” said Granny. “Then there’s by far the biggest group of all.” “I know” said George. “That’s all the millions of ordinary people like us, who live in all the other countries in the world.” “That’s it,” said Granny.
“I imagine in my story that all the people that we meet during our whole lives are all on a train together. It’s very crowded, and it’s a long journey. A forever journey, really. But because it’s a train, we can get up and move around, and talk to different people.” “And go to the toilet,” noted George. “Yes,” said Granny. “Every so often the train stops at a station, and people get on and off.” “So do we know the people getting on?” asked George eagerly. “Not exactly,” said Granny. “They are the new babies born to people we know.” Granny waited quietly for George to ponder. The arrival of new babies was an exciting thought for a child, but behind the thought of shiny new comings, George was already speculating on the implied shadowy old goings. This was the bit that she had fears about, and she was quiet for some time. Granny felt her tension, and waited. When she was sure that George was ready, she went on without waiting for another question. George felt safe.
“When someone dies, it’s like they’ve stepped off the train and the train has continued on its way. If it was someone you didn’t know very well, you might not mind too much, or even notice. But once in a while a difficult time comes, and the person who stepped off the train is someone we love. She may already have been out of sight on the train, off talking to someone. And then someone has to tell us, and we hurt and struggle with it, to try and make it not be so. For a while, it seems as if we are alone on the train, and it is hateful. Yet the train has a rhythm that can cradle and comfort us, and stop us from hurting for too long.
And what becomes of she who has stepped from the warmth and comfort of the train, and now stands on the empty platform in the dark, watching the strand of train lights disappear? As the silence enfolds her, a realization comes to her that as one journey has finished, a new one is just about to begin. She sees in her mind’s eye a vast picnic field in glittering sun, and knows that she must go there, to be with loved ones again. The way from the station is a rutted, rain soaked mud track, and so dark that even the hedges are difficult to make out, with no light to be seen.
This is where we come in.” “How can we help, if we’re still on the train?” asked George, who was curled up, hugging her knees. “Do you remember Tinkerbell, in Peter Pan?” “Sure,” said George. “She was the bad-tempered fairy who pulled Wendy’s hair.” “Well, let’s miss out the bad-tempered bit, -- and the fairy bit for that matter. I’m imagining a small ball of light that flits around, nimbly and silently. I’m imagining that whenever someone still on the train thinks of a good memory they have of that person . . . . . . ” “A little light will shine on the way to the picnic field,” cried George happily. “That’s it!” said Granny.

Over the next few weeks, George adopted the story as her own, and would come round to Granny’s house with a keenness to tell of new details that she had added: If the person had done lots of kind things for people, their good memories of her would give her lots of lights to see her on her way. The lights would zoom and sparkle in rainbow colours.
If someone thought of a bad thing that the person had done, one of the lights would go out, and the way would become more difficult.

As time went by, woolly shawls and gumboots were added, and friendly rabbits for company, to make the journey as comfortable as possible. George didn’t ask about the picnic field itself. She might do one day, but for now, she didn’t need to.

The end