A Visit to the Grandfather

     Growing up in England, my two children were both active in their various endeavours and able to mix with local children living nearby in the West Dorset countryside. My daughter became interested in riding at the age of 7 and after several private lessons, joined a branch of the Pony Club of Great Britain, (founded in 1929). We, my daughter and her younger brother, were friends with another family living a mile away and they and a farmer friend, sometimes went off for the day on Pony Club rallies and other various gatherings.
     Because I was divorced in England in 1984, I started a small business sewing and doing alterations etc. This eventually lead to expanding it, making soft furnishings from what was called a 'cottage industry' in those days - working from home, but full time developing it into a successful business.  Originally I'd put a small advertisement in the village shop window one day, which was noticed by a lady who lived in London, visiting her father residing in a lovely Georgian house with extensive gardens and swimming pool.  The property was on the edge of a lovely village called Thorncombe, about a mile from our cottage in beautiful hilly countryside.  Farmhouses, cottages, fields and laneways cascaded down into a pretty valley and up the other side. This lady worked for Hardy Amies, a fashion designer and best known as the official dressmaker for Queen Elizabeth II from her accession to the throne in 1952 until his retirement. Her clothes were beautifully tailored and of an excellent quality and I was asked to alter them from time to time. Eventually I met her very charming father who we all called 'Pa', which he requested. He was tall and slim with a kind face and gentle manner and a true gentleman. The children and I also met other members of his family in time, but as his wife had died several years earlier, we also met a lady friend of his who visited regularly. 
     Pa and his friend often sat by the pool drinking coffee, reading newspapers and chatting.  The children and I and our friends were sometimes invited to swim in the pool, particularly after a Pony Club meeting at Forde Abbey. This by the way, has a wonderful history, as the Abbey was originally a Cistercian monastery built between 1133-36. The grounds are substanial and the entire property was, and is possibly still privately owned by the Roper family. Their three daughters were also members of the Pony Club. The children and I walked or drove to some of the fields to pick our own strawberries or through a further field reached by walking down a deep field opposite our cottage, over a stream and up through the hamlet of Hewood, then along a path to the raspberry patch with its many rows of canes. There was a lady who lived in one of two farmhouses in Hewood who found my horse for me, which I bought and enjoyed seven wonderful years with. He was 17 years old when I bought him, and found he taught me most of what I needed to know. My farmer friend taught me certain rules about riding in the countryside and etiquette shutting gates etc.  My very own horse at the age of 49! Eventually she sold the farm to the TV chef Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall. 
     One day while visiting, Pa and I were sitting in his lovely plant-filled conservatory having coffee, and I asked him if there was anything I could do to thank him for his kind offer in allowing us to swim in his pool. His immediate reaction was a request to make him a cake. This I gladly did and set about making him our favourite boiled fruit cake on my trusty Aga cooker. This recipe was gleaned from a cookbook sent to England by post from Australia, by my mother-in-law before she passed away. The book was called 'The Piddle Valley Cookbook', and I still have it - printed and bound in Bodmin, Cornwall in 1978, the year we all arrived in England. Recipes were contributed  by ladies from the Piddle Valley in rural Dorset, Thomas Hardy country. They joined together with over 200 concoctions such as 'Rumble Thumps', 'Hubble Bubble', 'Hopel-Popel' and 'Great Grandfather's Christmas Cake' containing the very best of traditional Dorset cooking. All royalties of the book went into restoration of the village church. But this delightful book also contained a boiled fruit cake recipe, which to me, left out a few important 'goodies' such as nuts, a good slug of homemade marmalade and of course very necessary alcohol. I added whatever I had on hand, whether it be sherry, port, brandy or even whisky. For some reason the ingredients for me never got weighed. As long as the texture was right before pouring into a tin, it never let me down, not ever. This cake was always moist and totally delicious. Pa loved it and I continued to make it for him when required, or anything else that took his fancy. It was always a pleasure. The delicious cake also accompanied us on camping trips in a motorcaravan, pony club events and made each Christmas since. It was a favourite of many which kept well because of the alcohol content. 
     As time went on, Pa grew ill and the house needed to be sold, much to our sadness. I was asked by family members who didn't live locally, but mainly in London and elsewhere, if I would show prospective buyers over the property. Although the very capable agents from Honiton in Devon were a good 30 minues away by car, I was more than happy to oblige, and for more than one reason. In fact I was delighted I could help in some small way.
     Before Pa finally moved away, he and family members offered to give me a picture from several lining the walls up a delightful corridor in the house, as a thank you. I had sometimes paused to enjoy their content when passing, (as much later in life found I enjoyed painting in watercolour, and entirely self taught.) They asked if I would choose one. I didn't feel it necessary as I was more than grateful we could swim in his pool and mix with family members over the years. But quickly my eyes found one with a title being 'A Visit to the Grandfather.' It possessed a special meaning for me and would always remind me of Pa. According to The British Museum it was painted by John Raphael Smith dated 1788 and print made by William Ward. The technique was mezzotint and dimentions are 55.5cms heigh, by 40.5cms wide. Most of the information appears on the framed print I have in my possession. It has hung on my bedroom wall ever since and will always remind me of those happy days visiting Pa in a delightful Dorset village, not one mile from our cottage and home at the time. I'd spent twenty six happy years living in West Dorset and maintain many memories of this area of outstanding natural beauty.
     

A Small Oil Painting

     A young girl gazed with awe at the mulitude of different trees in a sloping garden. Within the garden stood a large old house amidst bushy shrubs and occasional flower beds, she found so intriguing. It looked as though it all belonged in one of the mystery stories she enjoyed reading. The ten year old girl and her brother who was two years older, rarely visited the inhabitant of this huge property opposite an enormous park. But on this occasion their mother was discussing plans to take a friend who painted, to the beach for the day the following Saturday. Although the children were still enjoying their summer holidays, Saturday seemed an auspicious day in which a beach outing would occur. It wasn't clear why, but it would be very welcomed by the children, as the weather was hot and sultry. So they continued to play and explore the huge garden with its many nooks and crannies, while their mother was occupied inside. They lived not too far away and their mother was perfectly capable 0f driving the family car. In those days about ten years after the second world war, not many cars occupied the roads anyway.
     Eventually they were invited to join the adults for tea with cucumber sandwiches and a piece of seed cake. Of course their mother washed their hands and faces first and straightened the young girls dress to make sure they were decent enough for this lady who was relatively unknown to them, but appeared rather pleasant, with a kindly smile and a well shaped face.  The lady seemed rather middle aged to the child, as she wore her hair pinned up in a sort of scroll behind her head. They knew it was necessary to be on their best behaviour, as their mother was eyeing them suspiciously, probably wondering if one of them were to drop cake crumbs on the lady's carpet, or worse still, their drinks. They were given cold freshly made lemonade with a slice of orange in it, which was welcome indeed. 
     The girl quietly sipped her lemonade looking around the walls of this old Victorian room over the rim of her glass. The ceiling was high and the two windows were larger than she'd seen before, but inside the sitting room appeared dark and almost forbidding, probably because of  the many large trees and bushes outside in the mysterious looking garden.  Spaced out around the walls were a few framed paintings and several drawings. She wanted to walk around and look at them, but caught her mother's expression of 'no you will not'. The girl sighed and ate a mouthful of the delicious seed cake instead. But she couldn't take her eyes off the paintings and wanted so much to study them.
     The very next Saturday their mother packed a picnic lunch for them all, while their father went off to umpire a cricket match. The lady painter who seemed very important for some reason to the young girl, but not knowing why, was escorted into the back seat before their mother engaged first gear and set off for the beach, well over an hour's drive from home. The weather continued very warm with several clouds wandering across a deep blue sky turning to pale cerulean on the horizon.  A fitful breeze blew leaves this way and that on trees dotted along the main road, as the car travelled towards Frankston beach.
     Soon after lunch was eaten, the charming lady with her hair caught up behind her head with wispy bits floating around her face, seemed eager to paint the scene in front of her. The girl's brother had already wandered off to help push two long rowing boats up onto the sand in front of a very pleasant old two story structure. It was probably a yacht club or for lifesavers who manned the beaches in certain areas, where people could swim between two flags in safety from boats or even an occasional shark. 
     The young girl watched the lady adjust her small easel in the sand where she proceeded to paint the scene that presented itself. She looked on in amazement as colours were daubed and dabbed onto the canvas, forming a beautiful picture slowly coming to life. Behind the two long boats, a small yacht appeared with a young man sitting towards the stern holding the tiller, with its two sails and single mast. It heaved to in shallow pale azure green water. Immediately the artist painted the sail boat into the small picture. Her older brother wearing a red shirt helping to push the long row boats onto sand, was eventually painted into the scene also, their reflections added in a gently receding light blue and azure sea. A blue sky with a scattering of clouds tinged with muted pinks similar to the colour of the sand, reflected in the shallow water, as it lapped gently onto a reddish golden sandy beach. The painting was forming into a beautifully balanced picturesque scene, much to the child's delightful enjoyment. She sat quietly watching as the lady continued earnestly with her brush and palette. 
     The girl's mother had returned to their car, parked not far away, with the picnic basket and collected hats and anything else they might need. A large umbrella had already been erected keeping the artist cooler in the hottest part of the day.      In the distance behind the sail of the small yacht, was Olivers Hill, which rose up from the town and wound around the edge of a cliff above the sea. Deep red-gold clay and rocky cliffs cascaded down from the main road until they reached lapping waves and a foam-filled sea, crashing against rocks with an occasional piece of driftwood and seaweed bobbing on the surface.
     As the afternoon and the painting drew to a close,  two young boys emerged from the cool shallow water and romped on the sand nearby. Not long after, laughter was heard as one of them fell scattering grains of sand across the painting. The artist looked up in disgusted annoyance trying gently to brush them off the fresh oil paint. Not all of them were possible to remove.
     
     As the little girl grew up, the signed painting had been bought by her parents and framed well at the time. But her mother eventually became old and unwell, and the girl who had by now reached middle age herself, asked her mother if she could have the painting some day in the future. Her father had already sadly passed away and her older brother also. She still remembers him helping to push the long wooden rowing boats up onto the beach wearing his red shirt, included in the small oil painting, that hot summer's day during their holidays.
     The artist was Norma Bull who was born in 1906 and died in Melbourne in 1980, aged 74, an Australian artist best known for her painting, drawing and etchings. She lived and worked in England from 1938-1947, when she returned to Australia to continue painting. Her home known as 'Medlow' was built in 1889 and bought by the Bull family in 1911, her mother being a great lover of music and the arts. It was bequeathed at one stage to the National Trust, but since sold back into private ownership. Norma's father Dr Richard Bull, was a lecturer in bacteriology during WWI and developed typhoid vaccines. He was President of the British Medical Association in 1926.
     
     The small oil painting scene was eventually passed down to the author of this short story, now also 74, having taken up watercolour painting herself at the mature age of 71. She still gazes up at the painting hanging on her living room wall and occasionally gently runs her fingertips over its surface to feel the few grains of sand that still remain.

A Woman's Work is Never Done!

An old paling fence, standing high above a plinth board underneath, representing a boundary in the garden between my neighbours property and mine, was slowly, painstakingly, pulled down in sections of about six meters at a time. Multiply this by a good six sections - it added up to an enormous task. Until my neighbour and I began the undertaking, I hadn't realized just how large a task, until we got started.
       Over the years, it had gathered rainwater along the horizontal supports, rot was slowly increasing year by year, until one day my neighbour mentioned that, some day soon it will need to be replaced. At this, I chirped up that winter would be a suitable time, as by then the large spreading roses on my side would have been pruned. Heavily if necessary. They had served me well, shedding their many white petals throughout the back garden, and yes, all over the patio and up the side of the house, which was undercover. Providing the weather over the winter wasn't too wet, it would be an ideal time to get the fence replaced. It needed to be done and the task wasn't going away in a hurry. So meeting it head on I did.
     As I had been on my own for thirty years, I'd been accustomed to trying anything once, providing it was physically possible and I knew I was reasonably capable. My father had always been handy, but was this something a woman should indulge in and tackle? After all, she was meant to be the fairer sex, to possess feminine qualities. Her place in the past was always in the home, not equipped with hammer, nails, screwdrivers, electric drills and the like. I guess the fairer sex have evolved somewhat since the dark ages. It's now possible to see them driving public transport, serving in the armed forces, at the head in board rooms, even running countries!
      I've always been of the opinion that you either do things yourself, or pay someone else to do it for you - while you relax, sipping a gin and tonic, or vodka for that matter. The latter idea was soon pushed to one side, as I'm afraid I appear to take after my father, always aware if I was biting off more than I could chew. I have vague early memories of when he made me a wooden toy to push around the garden while I was barely walking, collecting everything I could lay my small hands on. That part I remember, as I was always picking the daisies and still do. In fact I've always grown them. My father was practical and there's no denying it - I definitely take after him. Perhaps this is to my advantage, but not if it means losing one's feminine qualities. But I digress.
     Being well aware that my neighbour, Danny, was every bit capable of replacing the fence, there was no way I would expect him to do it all himself. He worked all week and Saturday mornings, hence his spare time was vastly limited. So I set my mind firmly, that it would be possible to act as 'builder's mate' for the duration of replacing the fence - whatever that took! Like many other things undertaken over the years, it would be a first for me. Somehow I convinced myself I was capable. It appears my neighbour thought so too. He didn't hesitate to agree.
     In the past, Danny had achieved much. By now I was aware he possessed more than one shed, with many tools for different jobs - be they plumbing, electrical or even for replacing bathrooms with exact precision and mending rooftops from storm damage. There were tools for mending his roof and building an extension to his house.  As I found out while borrowing a sledge hammer (!), everything was kept in pristine condition and in an extremely tidy fashion. I was more than impressed.
     It was time to begin on the fence.
     During the week I set about stripping off the old wooden palings of the first six meter section - up to the second upright post - and after the first few, armed with only a hammer, knocking off the 1.8m high timbers, one at a time, the nails soon easing away from the horizontal supports. Although my neighbours didn't have a lot growing on their side, I was careful to catch most of the palings and place them on their grass as I went. They came in two widths, so were graded and kept together, later standing upright on their back fence neatly. Many were still usable, so a friend of theirs would later come and take them for a new purpose in life. Otherwise, they were to be loaded and taken to the tip - by us of course. I soon found just how many needed to be loaded, then unloaded.
     Fortunately, the weather was fine, not too cold and no strong wind to make things unpleasant. I worked hard, gathering up the rotting timbers, some still embedded with bugs and beetles, which wasn't a good sign.
     It also became obvious that I would visit the local huge warehouse-type shop to order the first lot of very long supports and posts to be delivered. The former were 5.40m long and not all that easy to manoeuvre in my driveway after delivery. Then, as Danny had earlier supplied me with free old engine oil, I painted each one carefully, to help keep the rain from rotting the new timbers. Hopefully, it may keep bugs and beetles at bay, too. (This reminds me of when I lived in the countryside, in the west of England. I installed tree trunk horizontal dividers in the stable area, at the end of our garden. This separated my horse from my daughter's borrowed pony - very successfully. I then built two lots of stable doors, with free pallet timber from the small factory, at the bottom of the lane. I made the top and bottom stable doors on the kitchen floor, bracing them with cross timbers, screwed firmly into place. A nearby garage supplied me with free old engine oil to keep the weather out. This was painted on and proved highly successful. The stable doors, both top and lower ones, are still intact many years later!)
     As I'd had a fair amount of pain and discomfort from my tennis-playing shoulder, I was glad to get as much done as possible before the cortisone injection was to be administered soon. There's no use expecting it to work, while you're still lumping heavy wood around the garden and knocking the life out of an old fence! It was utterly necessary to crack on while the going was good.
     The first weekend arrived and Danny was to take Saturday off for once, in order to get as much work done on the adjoining fence as possible. He inspected the first three posts and it was decided to replace two of them. Hence, he dug down deep with a long-handled shovel, a pickaxe, and soon needed his electric pneumatic drill to loosen up the old cement. Then on hands and knees, I scooped up as much soil and large stones as possible, to clear out the hole and under the old plinth boards, enabling him to lever out the old heavy posts. The boards were easily removed.
     Thank goodness the weather was holding fine so far, although chilly at times.
     Over lunch time the new cement was beginning to harden around the base of the new posts. Danny had cut out sections to accommodate the new horizontal supports. Soon after, we visited the same large warehouse, called Bunnings, for the first lot of palings and anything else we needed. His vehicle was a large utility, which meant it was possible to load easily, holding a great deal at a time. But alas, later that day he twisted an ankle, causing it to swell badly. So, on subsequent trips to Bunnings to collect more and more timber, etc., I was able to drive his vehicle with no trouble whatsoever. We even hired a free trailer and I drove back to his place carefully, with the very long timbers propped up and tied to the trailer. I was surprised he trusted me, but trust me he did. He really had no choice.
     We soon got into a rhythm attaching the new palings to the fence supports. Danny wielding the huge heavy nail gun expertly, while I busied myself efficiently each side of him, holding them in the exact place before nailing. Two wide ones, then two narrower ones.Thank goodness I have a good eye for straightness. At the completion, not one paling was slanting, (well not by very much), which was just as well. Neither of us would have fancied repeating the task.   
     Work progressed at a constant rate, completing a good section of fence during the first weekend. Danny's leg and ankle didn't improve much, but the fence did. I rather enjoyed the outdoor activity and the more exercise I received, the happier I was.
     The following week I set about tearing down the next section of old fencing while Danny went to work each day. Working at my own pace was enjoyable, although the two of us got along very well. I anticipated what was necessary, and tried dutifully to assist when and where possible. Much of it was common sense and I appear to possess enough of it to get by. What was really hard work, were trips to the tip - loading and unloading his vehicle. Hard work wouldn't hurt me, but might kill me instead! Not just yet it seems. Joints aren't what they used to be either and it was showing! Also further trips to Bunnings for more timber was fun, as I got to drive Danny's utility truck, with another free trailer attached, which I've never done before, but managed well. I think he was quietly impressed - that is until I pulled carefully out of the tip onto the wrong side of a minor road, briefly. As usual, there was no panic from Danny, just raised eyebrows and a curious look on his face. All was forgiven, as I noticed my error quickly and got back on track. Hey ho! I thought he'd lose faith in me, but apparently not. Don't think he had a choice quite honestly, as there was no improvement with his ankle.
     Our adjoining fence progressed and so did the tiredness. Any hefty showers conveniently arrived at lunch time or when we were in Bunnings. The drive-in facility to the timber section was appreciated.
     The last section of fence was apparent and I was allowed the honour of ramming the last nail into the upright timber. I knew this gadget had a kick, as each time Danny pressed the trigger to fire a nail, a fierce pulse of air wasn't far from my face. I soon got to know when it was coming, avoiding  the oncoming gusts by looking away at the exact moment. It needed some careful timing. A few times the blast was so fierce, it blew Danny's cap right off his head into the garden! I couldn't help laughing.
     So I braced myself well, took aim and fired. It was completed at last. We stood back briefly to admire our workmanship, before I helped him tidy up his garden and replace the tools.
     It appears a woman's work is never done, but at least we are capable, if our minds are set to the task at hand - and yes, thankfully, Danny's foot improved.
     Since this project was completed last winter, I've decided to replace the roof over my patio area. The present roof was an insurance job and lets in too much heat from the sun in summer and of course leaks. If you want a job done properly - do it yourself!!!
      Danny will be the boss and I will be his slave, (builder's mate) as usual. Bunnings have been visited, pricing new materials to be purchased nearer the time and measurements and calculations done. He has agreed to help out and naturally has already replaced his own roof over an amazing outdoor entertaining area, complete with BBQ, TV and large dining table and chairs. Having neighbours like these, has made living where I do, more than a pleasure.
    
    

In the Bleak Mid Winter

At this time of the year being almost Christmas, my thoughts usually turn to the cosy old 17th century cottage I lived in with our two children, now very grown up and living in Australia, as indeed I do too. Many years were spent on my own after they departed for this country from England, preceding me by at least 10 years.
     The title of this short story is also my favourite Christmas carol, sung by the choir at Kings College, Cambridge, in England. There it is sung in low candle light, reflecting the soft warmth around the old walls of the chapel, its quietness and gentle rhythm encapsulating the essence and true spirit of the season. The carol is based on the words of the English poet Christina Rossetti, which rises melodically to the old rafters and there seeps into every soul who listens -
 
"In the bleak midwinter,
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow has fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago."
     There are also more verses of the carol.
     Winter and Christmas time, particularly in the late 70s and through the 80's, was every bit "frosty wind made moan". To me it was never bleak, the frost crisp and often sharp in the depths of the West Dorset countryside. Hills, lanes and hedgerows were heavily laden with dry, cold, powdery snow. It was so beautiful, particularly if the sun shone onto it, if even briefly. To me it was heavenly, bright, light and white as it drifted down gently, covering everything in its sight - it drifted this way and that, across the tops of flat hedgerows, onto bare boughs of trees, including our large bramley apple ones, over rooftops and all across far distant empty fields. At one time, it almost buried the downstairs diamond-shaped leadlight windows, reaching to the second floor.
      Waking in the morning on Christmas Day, everything was quiet and peaceful, the light in the bedroom eventually becoming bright with the whiteness outside. It appeared eerie at first, but you knew it had snowed during the night. Downstairs, before I later had the cottage enlarged and almost rebuilt around me, installing central heating, on the inside of the leadlight panes, ice had formed overnight - even with the Aga range on, purring away gently like a contented cat, 24 hours a day.
     Those days are still remembered and my biggest regret was that my children never benefited from the cosiness, comfort and utter bliss of central heating while they were growing up. No doubt their thoughts changed as they experienced the heat of Melbourne summers - with an occasional hot Christmas Day, which never really feels like Christmas, not like the ones in England. Those Christmases would be only a memory - when they sang carols at the end of a school year, involved in the school's Christmas play, or some other event.
     The "earth stood hard as iron" in those early winters and later, after a sharp frost had descended during the night, my best friend and I traipsed
over it twice a week, for stimulating conversation and exercise. The clods were frozen solid, our Wellington boots, (named after the Duke of Wellington), never sinking into rutted farm tracks, but walking on top of them instead. It was a strange sensation for me at first, but at least we didn't get plastered in mud. I rather preferred it, enjoying the fresh country air each time. 
     The earth seemed to stand still after a heavy snowfall. It prevented the large school bus winding around narrow country lanes, so the children had a day off school - as indeed they did if the toilets froze. We'd all congregate in the deeply sloping field opposite the cottage, some with blue fertilizer bags from a friend's farm filled with hay. The gouged out tractor tracks made a perfect Cresta run all the way down to the holly bush below, at the beginning of a privately owned woodland. The overnight heavy frost soon solidified across the surface and we gathered a very fast speed on our tummies, using our feet as rudders. My best friend engaged her daughter's pony into action and we gave the kids rides on a make-shift sled pulled behind him, a hay bale as a seat. This adorable little skewbald pony had perfect manners, never putting a foot wrong, probably enjoying the winter fun as much as the children. 
     Water was like stone in the farmyards - drinking troughs solid. Puddles from earlier rain iced over, the farmer's pipes for milking also solid as stone, making them curse and cuss.  
     In the warmth of the cottage, a turkey slowly cooked in the Aga range, closely watched from time to time in case the oil ran out at a crucial moment. It actually did once, much to my annoyance. Christmas Dinner was always important, the pudding warm and waiting to be consumed with home-made custard or cream - brandy butter later added after the children left for Australia.
     I'd sometimes invite my bachelor farmer friend to share it with me and later walking it off in the woodland below or across fields, frozen in time. Old films were maybe watched in the evening, with only the softness of Christmas tree lights twinkling around the cottage sitting room, accompanying them. The walk-in inglenook fireplace with its large oak beam framing it, engulfed a wood-burning stove, logs crackling away within, glowed warm and inviting. If it was Christmas Eve, we'd watch the choir from Kings College Cambridge sing the well known carols. I longed to hear 'In the Bleak Midwinter.' It brought tears to my eyes and gladness to my heart. I had a lot to be glad about.
     For me, the snow was always welcome, but not when I had to drive after a heavy fall. Our driveway was short and steep, making things difficult when it iced over. In the 70's and 80's I would ask the council politely for a little extra grit to be dumped nearby and they usually obliged, if I was lucky enough to catch them at the right moment.
     One Christmas in particular, the children and I were watching the film 'White Christmas' on a small television set perched on the window ledge next to the large wooden kitchen table, where we were eating our Christmas Dinner. Bing Crosby was singing 'White Christmas' as outside all was still and quiet. Huge shapes of fluffy snow fluttered down slowly as I rang my mother in Australia to tell her. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. The snowy scene outside couldn't have looked prettier or more charming. The children were anxious to go outside enjoying make new tracks in the snow around the garden. Quite honestly, I couldn't wait either. It drifted down with huge white flakes against a grey sky, landing on our noses, heads blanketing everywhere in the garden. and beyond. Perhaps it was me who stayed out the longest. In later years after the children had gone, my friend and I played in it until after dark. She sliding down our Cresta run - me with my skis. The surface had frozen later in the afternoon when the sun dipped quickly behind distant fields, crusting the top of snow lying all around and down across the undulating field. This made it easier to turn the skies. We played like children that evening, enjoying ourselves immensely, laughing and frolicking until quite late, but we didn't care.
     There isn't a bleak midwinter in Melbourne and never will be where I now live, but I'll have my cherished memories of Christmases in England and they'll stay with me forever - the charm, the delight, the snowy days and frozen nights, a log fire crackling in a grate, excited children coming down the small staircase in the cottage, to find what lay beneath a twinkling Christmas tree.   
    

Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree

Seagulls swept low over an ebbing tide of a silvery estuary, sparkling brightly as the morning sun rose higher, spreading its rays across glistening water and rolling hills. Squawking aimlessly amongst themselves, the gulls gathered on a shallow sandbank halfway across the estuary towards sweeping fields, trees and a single farmhouse opposite. 
     A tall ageing gentleman walked along a leaf-strewn path close to the water's edge, which circled a large park, where from time to time a few people exercised on various pieces of outdoor gym equipment, installed by the Cornish Council. A foursome of ladies played tennis not far away on the other side of the park, while a middle aged man with a pleasing smile possessing a sanguine disposition, served mugs of hot coffee, cakes, sandwiches and occasionally iced buns nearby in a small purpose-built café. His trade was reasonably brisk while the weather held fair, but now autumn was setting in, mainly locals visited the small café keeping his business afloat. It overlooked the tennis courts with a few tables and chairs spread out under a large ash tree, its leaves a deep golden colour, moistened by overnight dew.
     George usually walked at a moderate pace, hands plunged into trouser pockets, as he circled the park twice each morning. His head tended to hang down as if deep in thought and he never really smiled at anyone as they passed him by. In fact he barely uttered a 'good morning' as the other dog walkers, joggers and strollers did. He kept his head lowered, seemingly content with his own company. A small dog followed faithfully in his footsteps, never on a lead, but never straying from the path either. She was a small black and white spaniel with floppy ears and a pretty, well-shaped head. Her gait was even as her short legs moved to keep up with her owner. She possessed an inquisitive expression and hoped many a time to stop and investigate her surroundings, but it wasn't to be. Her loyalty to her owner was such that she was content enough to follow him around the tree lined path, occasionally stopping by a tree trunk to sniff before catching him up. Most days it was the same, weather permitting and George didn't bother too much to turn and see if his dog was following, but rather strolled on relentlessly, plodding one foot in front of the other.
     The ageing man was pleasantly dressed in what looked like comfortable sports clothes, as he usually paused to exercise on the gym equipment. He only managed about fifty slow strokes on the rower, then paused catching his breath before moving to the cross trainer. There he appeared to contemplate for a while longer, before continuing his walk around the park after a brief rest on a park bench. His dog sat attentively watching George, ears pricked and head cocked to one side.
     The exercise equipment beside the wide estuary was overlooked on the other side by rolling countryside and clumps of trees. Most days George indulged his thoughts while absorbed in the scenery, steadily, diligently moving the rowing bars back and forth when the weather wasn't inclement. He gazed nonchalantly out across the ebbing or flowing tide upon the hills and gentle valleys, green after constant autumn rain, A small herd of cows grazed in the faintest of morning mist. He squinted briefly to observe them, a brief smile on his weathered face. He'd been a well-to-do-farmer in his earlier life, until that too was abandoned for one reason or another.

Rob and Sarah sometimes walked through the park or around it at certain times of the year, when they weren't travelling abroad with Sarah's work schedules. Rob lived in Cornwall permanently, content with his retired lifestyle and when time permitted, walked alone on the cliff tops in winter overlooking Perranporth beach. He and Sarah strolled hand in hand taking in their environment. She was several years younger than Rob and not yet retired. They'd shared an ongoing relationship for years but never bothered to marry. Rob breathed in the cool morning air, before informing Sarah that the Canada geese would soon be visiting  again on their way south for the winter. 'It was a sight to behold', he told her with enthusiasm, 'although a noisy but fascinating event if you happen to be here at the right time.' She'd never seen such a migration as this and being interested in bird life and photography, hoped she could catch a glimpse of them one day soon. Sarah was forced to live in London for now but hoped one day to move to Cornwall.
     They passed George on the path coming towards them one morning, as a grey autumn mist hovered across the water of an incoming tide, slowly descending on the rolling hills opposite barely visible.  Seagulls wheeled above, their cries intermittent as they swept low across the water of the estuary. A herd of cows had been turned out and grazed slowly traversing a hill, ghostlike in autumn mist. The sun peered  briefly through higher wispy clouds to glisten on the water's surface, turning it a shimmering silver again.
     Rob took a deep breath and looked across at Sarah. 'You know, that man never speaks or says good morning as all the other people do. I wonder why.'
     Sarah thought for a moment before answering. 'I wonder too,' she replied, eyeing the silvery water, bringing her camera up to her eye capturing the moment. 'There must be a reason,' she sighed. ' People have all sorts of problems to deal with, good reasons and private too for not wanting to talk.'
       Sarah, like Rob was fit and active, of medium height, very attractive and with an inquisitive nature with pretty grey-streaked shoulder length hair. Although she lived a long way from Rob, only visiting several times a year, she enjoyed a change of air and scenery, where the hills appeared to sing with autumn song here in Cornwall and mists rolled in like creeping ghost from the sea beyond, herons dived to a well tuned theme, and shadows danced across distant hilltops. Clouds scudded briefly before banking into darkening skies as large tree boughs bent low towards the water. The October sun barely warmed upturned faces in the park, as gulls glided, swooped again and again to the sound of silent fish swimming. Sarah loved the park and countryside surrounding it, close to where Rob lived. She absorbed all its beauty and being near the seaside, enjoyed the best of both worlds marveling at its beauty. Autumn was her favourite season and already the trees were changing colour. Leaves fluttered down littering pathways and pavements in towns and villages. There was a small lake on the edge of the park, where she often paused, watching ducks and swans glide effortlessly upon a leafy surface, hoping she'd catch them in full flight with her camera.
     'Well I don't know,' replied Rob with a shrug. 'He's never spoken a word to me, only nodded if I caught his glance.'
     Sarah reasoned for a moment. 'Maybe he is unhappy about something,' she suggested thoughtfully. 'Or there may have been a death in his family. You never know. That sort of thing would certainly make anyone feel mournful or quiet, don't you think?'
     Rob kept walking at his usual pace, as Sarah bustled to keep up with him. 'I suppose so,' he muttered.
     'I wonder if it was possible to encourage him a little as he appeared to her sensitive about certain things. After all, he does have a very nice face and perhaps wouldn't mind if I smiled at him. Surely that wouldn't do any harm. If he doesn't want to be bothered, so be it,' she shrugged. She glanced quickly over at Rob who appeared to be considering her idea. He hardly paused, striding on towards the gym equipment, where he liked to exert himself several days a week. He wasn't young anymore, being retired now for the past year and feeling the need to keep as fit as possible with his advancing years.
     'Do you really think so?' he replied, sitting down and taking up the bars of the rowing machine. 'As I've said, he's never bothered to utter a word to me when you haven't been around. Why would he want to now?'
     Sarah smiled to herself, enjoying the challenge. 'I can only try,' she said, with a feeling of determination.
     'Try if you will, but I very much doubt it's worth the effort.' Rob rowed a little faster, slowly increasing the pace to a steady rhythm, as blackbirds whistled in ivy covered bushes nearby, their sound almost harsh upon the morning air.


Not far away grew a large chestnut tree, already beginning to shed several nuts, scattering them onto the pathway. A few young children were walking with their mothers scurrying to collect them in tiny hands, laughing as they tossed them into the air before catching them again.
     As autumn progressed, many leaves had already changed into a deep gold and orange colour. They shimmered in weak sunlight filtering through overhanging branches of a row of mature trees along a pathway, beside where small boats bobbed on a high tide, some strewn across the lake's surface opposite. Swans dipped their heads diligently into the depths looking for food, the surface rippling with their effort.
     Several days later, as the early morning quietly mellowed across the estuary, cows still grazing along its banks, George sat quietly on a seat below spreading branches of a large chestnut tree. Alone with his thoughts, he contemplated a first circuit of the park while the sun glinted through the magnificent colourful branches above. His dog lay at his feet, one eye always on her owner. George usually began his walk here, while his dog shuffled a little closer to his outstretched long legs. He muttered something to her, before they began strolling along the path towards the exercise equipment, passing the tennis courts on their way. He'd named the dog Lucy, in honour of his wife, who died tragically in a car accident a few months ago. He felt an empty loneliness after her death that gripped his whole being, seemingly inescapable. 

Perched on a park bench overlooking the estuary and the exercise equipment, Sarah shifted upon the seat, noticing George approaching some distance away. She walked over to the cross trainer, having never been on it before, watching Rob nearby, as he completed his rowing efforts.
     As she stood on the footprints of the cross trainer, feeling a little apprehensive, she remarked. 'Oh!' she laughed. ' I'm going backwards I think,' then laughed again at herself.
     At that moment, George was passing and turned his head briefly. 'You'll soon get used to it,' he said with no particular expression.
     Sarah was astonished that he'd spoken to her and not knowing what to answer, quickly replied, 'Oh do you really think so?' and smiled at him.
     'Yes!' he said walking on, his dog following closely on his heels.
     She soon got the hang of it, her legs moving up and down which seemed to her a rather jerky motion, not at all smooth as she expected.
     'I'm not so sure,' she laughed, half to herself.
     Soon Rob stood in front of her, arms folded with a strange look on his face, his mouth twisting.
     'Was I imagining it, or did old George actually speak to you?'
     She slowed her rhythm, coming to a halt. 'He did indeed,' she replied with a brief nod and smile.  'And how nice he seems too!'
     'How nice!' retorted Rob, sounding almost jealous.
     That didn't deter Sarah in the slightest. 'Yes nice,' she repeated. 'And it appears he's not a great deal older than you,' she grinned smugly
     He ignored her last comment with its innuendo. 'Perhaps it's that lovely smile of yours,' grimaced Rob. 'You can't help but have old George speak to you if you smile sweetly at him,' he admitted. 'And how do you know he's nice?' frowned Rob.
     She sat down on the bench, gazing out to sea. Seagulls were constantly soaring and circling, their raucous cries sounding like petty squabbling over food or territory.
     Sarah thought for a moment before answering. 'He has a very pleasant face and I just knew he'd say something sooner or later. It's a matter of circumstances, you see.' She smiled inwardly, feeling she'd really accomplished something and it pleased her.
     Rob relented to her natural charm, sitting beside her, grasping her hand in his. 'I'm glad he spoke to you though. Perhaps you've broken the ice after all this time.'
     'I still think he's shielding something. He appears to be guarding his feelings somehow.' She pulled her hand away from his while thinking. 'I'd really like to know, but of course it's none of my business is it?' Sarah looked down at her hands, then at Rob again. 'Come on,' she said, getting up from the seat. 'Let's walk some more. I need the exercise.' 
     She often thought it was far easier to engage in pleasant conversation by asking someone about themselves than talking about oneself. One day it may be possible to engage this strange and mystifying gentleman in brief conversation. She certainly hoped so, as it'd be a challenge she'd relish. 
     They did another circuit of the park, Sarah pausing to watch two people playing tennis, while Rob strode on as he often did. 
     'Oh I wish I could still play,' she said half under her breath, knowing her injured shoulder was no longer up to it. This always left a deep sadness inside her when she thought about it.
     'Do you?' came a quiet voice behind her.
     Sarah turned suddenly to find George standing not far behind her.
     'Yes... yes I do...' she replied hesitantly, feeling a lump rising in her chest. 'But can no longer I'm afraid, due to an injury.'
     She quickly turned the conversation around, realizing no one would be interested in hearing her woes, least of all a stranger. 'Do you play at all?' she enquired of him.
     'I used to play often with my wife, but have had a bout of cancer and alas, have lost a lot of my strength.' He looked down at his shoes, a regretful look on his face. 'It takes a while to get it back you see.'
     'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.' Sarah didn't wish to pry, but instantly felt sorry for George. Neither she nor Rob really knew the man's proper name, but always called him George and it stuck.
     'Are you better now?' she asked, wondering if she dare inquire further.
     'Yes I think so. On the mend at last, but the worst part is losing condition and not being able to play sport. That I find, very tedious. It's the hardest thing to accept. Not so much the illness.' He spoke with a soft, almost Yorkshire accent Sarah found intriguing. 
     She watched the tennis players for a moment longer. 'I think I would too, but I understand perfectly. We tend to take our health for granted until something goes wrong.'
     He glanced over at her again, his expression one of sadness. He didn't say anything for what seemed like several minutes. Sarah shifted from one leg to another, unable to continue the conversation and feeling a little awkward.
     'Think I'd better go now,' she smiled.
     George nodded briefly and strode off in the opposite direction, while she pondered more on what he'd said.

A few days later, Rob and Sarah were discussing politics as they walked briskly along the same path surrounding the park, kicking leaves occasionally as they went. Another mist had rolled in from the sea, chilling the air around them. Sarah donned a large spotted scarf, knotting it firmly around her neck. George was already on the rowing equipment ahead of them, steadily drawing the bars back and forth.
      As they approached, she paused and looked over at him, his back turned to them, gazing out over the estuary as he rowed. Soon he slowed to a halt, sitting motionless for a time. Rob was already engaged in a piece of equipment that went from side to side, intent on achieving his usual two hundred counts each side. Sarah decided to sit on the bench and wait her turn.
     Soon George rose and noticed her sitting there and nodded briefly. 
     'A lovely morning isn't it?' she uttered, not knowing what else to say, wondering if he wanted to talk. He always looked a quiet man to her, not at all the chatty sort. His deep grey eyes were taking in her features before they once again gazed out over the water, watching a heron dive for fresh fish.
     He turned back as Rob joined her.
     'I only do about fifty strokes,' he replied, then glanced over to where Rob had been exercising.
     'Oh! Rowing you mean? Hmm... she thought. Perhaps it's because he's had cancer. She gave a little nod and smiled. 'It takes a while to get back into the swing of things,' she suggested. 
     'Do you come here most days?' asked Rob, intervening. Although he'd noticed old George  somewhere along the path many times in the past, but hadn't taken much notice. George paused before answering, taking a deep, slow breath. 'Yes, I try to do two circuits,' he answered in a forthright manner surprising them both, before becoming rather breathless.  
     How strange Sarah thought to herself, before more conversation was forthcoming from George. He was becoming quite chatty by now.
     'My wife died several months ago,' he sniffed, 'and she loved this equipment. We played a lot of tennis together you see, just over there.' He motioned with his head across the park. 'It was a shock when it happened and I've felt lost ever since,' he mused, his head lowered, eyes downcast.
      Lucy gazed up at him whimpering, as if she understood what he was feeling, not taking her eyes off George for a moment, her tail slowly moving from side to side. She'd quickly become a constant companion for him, after his wife's death, but could never take the place of his true soul mate.
     'Oh dear, I'm sorry!' Sarah was beside herself, feeling immediate compassion for George. 'It must have been a very difficult time for you  and being ill as well.' Rob agreed with her sentiments nodding briefly.
     'It has been, I'm afraid. I'm not good on my own. Some men cope well, but I feel very much alone now. I miss my wife. We were the best of friends and shared many interests.'
     His dog sat upright at his feet, a mournful expression on her  face. George bent down and gave her ears a gentle rub. He loved animals and had enjoyed running a large profitable farm in the past.
     'She was abandoned you know.' He was still looking down at Lucy. 'I found her wandering the street late at night where I live and after making several enquiries, we formed a new partnership.' 
     George straightened his back slowly. 'She seems very loyal and won't let me out of her sight for long. I like her around me and have become quite used to her. She's good company too. I don't have any immediate family, so it's just her and me in a large house, I'm afraid.' 
     The little dog gave a bark of approval, which made Sarah smile. 'What a lovely little dog you have,' she said, bending down to fondle Lucy's ears. 'I'm glad she is company for you, and hope your health continues to improve. '
     She turned to Rob. 'I think we must go now, as you have an appointment soon,' she reminded him quietly.
     'Oh! I almost forgot. Perhaps we'll see you again soon.' He motioned to George with an expression of hope, beginning to like the old boy.
     'Perhaps you will,' came a distant reply.
     Sarah took Rob's hand and as they headed in the opposite direction to where the car was parked, turned and waved to George.
    
Several weeks later after an early shop, they walked in the same park, around its circumference towards the estuary. Although the wind was a lot colder, sun bristled through the spreading branches of the chestnut tree. Many more leaves had fluttered to the ground, littering it with colours of brown, red and gold. Amongst the fallen leaves were more of its nuts, scattered far and wide by children and people walking amongst them. The bench under the tree somehow looked empty and forlorn as they strolled past. Leaves had piled up becoming damp from recent rain.
     After their brisk walk, they paused for a mug of hot coffee at the café overlooking the tennis courts. Only one other person was there reading the paper as they ordered. They sat down, zipping up the front of their coats and rubbing hands together to warm them.
     The café owner leant over the counter as he was making their coffee and announced in a quiet voice. 'You know that man who always did two circuits of the park with his little dog? The one who always sat contemplating under the chestnut tree? I often saw him there first thing.' He motioned briefly with his head towards the huge tree nearby, its autumnal branches spread wide.
     'I wonder if that's old George?' suggested Sarah looking at Rob, eyebrows raised. She looked up at Danny, the café owner. 'You mean the one with the black and white spaniel? He was tall and... well pleasant looking, sort of quiet and introvert.'
     Danny nodded. 'Yes, that's the one. His name was George I think.'
     'Well I never!' remarked Sarah. She turned back to Danny, who was putting the finishing touches to two steaming mugs of coffee. 'We always called him that, never knowing it was his real name. What were you going to say about him? Do you know him well?'
     Rob walked over to collect the coffee. He looked up at Danny whose expression had changed, becoming much more serious. 'In fact not that long ago we got chatting with him and found he'd had cancer, poor man. He was always very quiet with just me around, until Sarah showed up. I think he liked her. It was she who got him talking a bit.' He took a sip of the steaming hot coffee and sighed.
     Danny folded his arms and rested them on the counter. 'I didn't know him much at all, only that he sat there often as if contemplating on that bench over there before walking around the park several times.' He motioned with his head to the lonely looking bench not far away. 'Almost two weeks ago now, I looked up to see only the little dog sitting under it, as if pining. I went over, but he just whimpered and wouldn't move at all. Turns out his owner had just died I'm sorry to say. Heart attack you know. I found out via a neighbour who knew him and has a coffee here from time to time. The dog's name is Lucy. 'In fact... '
     'Oh I am so sorry to hear that,' said Sarah, feeling suddenly very  sad. 'We were just getting to know him. Such a nice man and the little dog was so sweet. Maybe she'll have to go to a ho...'
     Danny interrupted at that moment. 'As a matter of fact I have her right here. No one else seemed to want her.'
     He bent down behind the counter and gathering up the little dog, handed her over to Sarah who  immediately responded with delight. She had a kind and caring heart and always loved dogs.
     'She's all yours!' said Danny, depositing the dog into Sarah's arms. 'There's no way I can look after her with my lifestyle the way it is.'
     At first Sarah was bewildered and didn't know what to do or say. 'I... I really don't think I can...'
     'Of course you can,' Rob interjected, smiling at her and giving Lucy a gentle pat. 'She'll love you - and your house is large enough for two. You even have a garden for her.
     Sarah laughed. 'It isn't at all, but if you think...'
     'I most certainly do,' agreed Rob again, before she had any other thoughts on the matter. 'And when you come to visit, we can walk her here, then she'll feel at home - at least for a time.'
     Sarah laughed again. 'For a time? Well I like that! Why for a time?' she enquired of Rob, but he ignored the question as she cuddled Lucy in her arms and smiled at her. 'What do you think little one, eh?'
     The small dog appeared to welcome the idea and gave a short bark, wagging her tail at the same time, squirming in Sarah's arms, settling down comfortably.
     'You see? She is in total agreement. It's all arranged then,' Rob announced, before Sarah had anything more to say, nodding his head and grinning at his own indulgence. He thought she would be a perfect choice to look after Lucy from now on.
     Danny too felt thankful the little dog would be well looked after, but Sarah was still feeling the loss of George and would really miss him. There was a certain charm about the tall, quiet gentleman.
     'I'll miss her owner though,' Rob added, looking at Lucy, then at Sarah. She nodded briefly in agreement as Lucy settled comfortably in Sarah's arms.
     Danny stood up. 'Good! That's settled then. How about sticky buns all round?'
     Sarah was still feeling apprehensive while holding the little dog, who had happily gone to sleep in her arms. It was going to be another chapter in their lives, one she thought she'd be happy to embrace.
     Rob leant over to her. 'Don't worry my dear. I'm sure all will be well,' he said reassuringly.
     'Perhaps it will,' she answered, still thinking of old George as they sipped their coffee.
     The seat under the spreading chestnut tree was empty but for many more fallen damp leaves. It looked barren and somewhat abandoned now winter wasn't far away. A cold north wind suddenly blew in across the estuary...
    
    
    
    
    


    
    

An Impromptu Visit to the Dentist!

It's not always straight forward when you help replace a large and lengthy timber dividing fence between your neighbour and yourself. Apart from the aches and pains occurred in the evening after hours of back-breaking work, the loss of half a tooth can result in another trip to the dentist.
     It could be considered fortunate that after an immediate phone call, a prompt appointment was hereby made.  By something feeling as if it was stuck amidst some bottom teeth, the tongue not only loosened the offending object, but so too half a bottom tooth, much to my annoyance and inconvenience. It was definitely not the right moment for this to happen.
     While continuing with the fence that day, the broken piece of tooth was placed carefully onto the floor inside the back sliding door of my kitchen for safe-keeping - just in case the dentist needed to refer to it. But alas, before it could be wrapped and taken for his perusal, it was vacuumed up in a frenzy of floor cleaning.
     After the first section of fencing was completed, a hasty trip to the dentist was executed. Feeling a bit guilty and not at all helpful, I explained about the broken half of tooth going AWOL before it could be scrutinized, but then rejoiced in the fact he happily waved that aside, as if to no avail with the problem at hand. What to do about the severe loss of tooth and the gaping cavity it left, looking a bit like 'the black hole of Calcutta', as we once referred to such things. 
     The young and very efficient Asian dentist looked into my mouth with a deep scowl to his forehead. 'Hmm...' he mumbled. He repeated the same troubling expletive as he shifted into several different positions to make quite sure of himself before delivering an earth shattering, or should I say bank-balance-depleting suggestion and to some  extent something resembling a perfect reason for an acute heart attack! 
     'Hmm... well... I think...'
     Did I want to hear what was coming? I think not, but listen I did, my hands clenched tightly together. I held my nerve for what was to be forthcoming.
     All I could do was hope and pray it wasn't going to cost an arm and a leg. He worked upwards to that, beginning with some sort of suggestion of a filling, then anchoring a post and a crown to follow. That alone would be A$1600 and here's me thinking $800 would be rather a lot to fork out. The idea of a filling began manifesting itself more and more in my brain. Even if it was possible to anchor a post...it would be expensive. Next he uttered the suggestion of an implant, not holding back for a moment of the cost it would incur.  I went a little strange at that moment, my legs turning to jelly at what was to come, and moaned while my mouth was still wide open. Perhaps he got the message. I knew full well implants don't come cheap, even if you  do have private medical and dental insurance. There are always out-of-pocket expenses to consider that could be perfectly within my budget. But an implant? He had no hesitation in informing me that one such item would be A$5000, and that's not for a mouthful of beautiful gleaming teeth, but a measly bottom side tooth. Did he realize I could buy a very expensive camera for that? Or even a decent lens or two, for my existing one. I could even enjoy a fancy cruise to the Caribbean , if I was that way inclined.
     After I recovered from the shock, I asked the young dentist if he could merely fill the offending tooth. 'I'll try', he answered, looking slightly hopeful. My heartbeats thus returned to some form of normality, hands relaxing slightly after being clenched throughout the 'preliminary' consultation.
     Putting my smile, for what that was worth, entirely in his hands, I gripped my hands together again, as he began the rebuilding, and in a clench that would have put a world prize fighter to shame.
     He set about administering many different substances, with a variety of sharp-looking instruments, with a lively conversation carried out above me, between his young female assistant and himself. My eyes dashed from one to the other, in the hope they hadn't become completely engrossed in last night's supper with friends at a well known restaurant.  How they could concentrate on such a flourishing rebuilding of a tooth, being a delicate operation and chatting about everything from last night's outing to the price of wine, while constantly passing different instruments to and fro, was beyond me. 
     'No, not that one,' he said patiently to his assistant at one stage. 'Cure!' 
     This was a pencil type thing that is placed against the filling with an ultraviolet light, then bleeps when the next bit of filling has hardened in a matter of seconds, or so it appeared. This was repeated several times.
     In the meantime, I noticed a large flat screen television set high and to one side of the room. The equipment was nothing like it used to be. My mind instantly went back to the days living in England. Visiting the dentist thirty years ago, in a lovely coastal village-type town in Dorset, things were very different. The building for one thing, was an old frontal type semi-detached house on the main street, leading down to the sea not far away. The rooms were on the first floor and large, with high fancy ceilings. There were always pleasant things to gaze at while your mouth was wide open, cotton wool pads stuck deeply into a cheek or two, definitely no television, but rather interesting enlarged photos of yachts racing, mounted on the walls. It was easy to invite a one-sided conversation. This particular dentist was keen on his sailing, even inviting me to crew for him at one time. Alas, I was always too busy in those days, which I now regret. Nothing would have been more exhilarating than being out on Lyme Bay, the wind through your hair, sea sparkling and the boat lifting and dipping in a heavy swell. The only other lifetime experience I compared this with, was riding my horse over hills and into valleys, through and over gates and paddling along streams. Those days have gone for good, but never the memories. They will remain with me forever.
     Soon after the delicate operation came to an end, I took off the dark glasses provided, peered into the mirror, and was utterly astonished at the dentist's ability to build a whole new tooth in the manner he did. It looked perfect, just like a tooth should look - the correct shape and size that fitted with others on the other side. It was even nicely polished and gleaming. I was delighted and congratulated him upon such an achievement. Needless to say, when I went to pay, was informed he would be no longer at that practice from the end of the month. Perhaps the grass was greener elsewhere. My heart sank once again. But soon his wife would take on the position. At least further treatments would be kept in the family and I was assured she was every bit as competent. Could she ever step into her husband's shoes, I wondered? Only time would tell. 

The Wicked Lady

A burly policeman stood tall, eyes narrowed and lips drawn tightly together. His legs were spread apart, feet planted firmly upon the floor, arms akimbo.
     'This is a serious crime you know. I may have to charge you.' A look of grim determination sketched over his face. He looked down at the lady standing in front of him frowning deeply at her.
     The grey haired lady hardly dare meet his gaze. She felt his dark eyes boring into her. 'Is it?' she replied, in a soft voice.
     'Yes it is, and what do you have to say for yourself, eh?' He could see her starting to quiver with nerves, but had no intention of letting up because of the gravity of the crime committed.
     The lady bit down on her bottom lip, wringing both hands against her waist, mortified. 'Oh...but...'
     The man stood firm, not budging with his questioning, for it had only just begun. 'You see fit to steal seeds and plants from anywhere you please...'
     'Oh no sir, not just anywhere,' she interjected, willingly admitting her involvement.
     By now the policeman was becoming aware that he didn't have a timid elderly lady on his hands, but one who had definite ideas of her own. 'And what do you mean by that if you please?'
     'Well sir, I'm very discerning. I'd never steal plants. Oh no! That really is stealing.'
     'Is that so? Anything else?'
     'Why, yes sir...' The lady glanced down at her hands, feeling his eyes still boring down at her like sharp daggers, before deciding to take the bull by the horns so to speak. She looked the policeman square in the face, her cheeks rosy with heated emotion and summoned up a little courage from where, she knew not. 'I can't help it if flowers go to seed, can I sir? If plucked at just the right time, you can gather them up, then sow them again later, thus starting the cycle over again. Don't you think that's something kind of special?' A slight smile broke out over her face, one of hope. She raised her eyebrows in anticipation.
     The policeman shifted his position, dropping his arms, placing his hands into his trouser pockets. By now he was trying hard not to smile, his mouth relaxing before contorting into an expression resembling worry. 'Well err...' He was momentarily stuck for words, not knowing how to deal with this unusual case before him.
     The lady continued, obviously completely missing the point in hand. 'My garden looks very nice sir, it's growing ever so well, and...'
     'There's more?'
     'Yes sir. I can't help it if plants flow over walls and across pathways. Sometimes the council just don't have enough time to keep things trimmed back - in the parks either.'
     By now the policeman was beside himself and didn't quite know how to take the next step. He frowned down at her. 'Indeed!'
     'You see,' the lady continued, regardless of what she was letting herself in for. 'I don't think it's so wrong to nip off a wee bit here and there as a small cutting and grow it on in my garden. I'm sure it would all go to waste otherwise - don't you think so sir?'
     'Err...' he began, before getting to the point once again. 'It's still a crime. You cannot go around stealing from wherever you please,' he insisted.
     The lady hung her head studying her shoes, still covered in soil. 'Oh dear! Is it sir? I had no idea...' She grasped her hands behind her back, expression one of deep concern.
     'Yes it is. Imagine if everyone went around nipping off the tops of plants? They'd probably be nothing left.'
      'I don't think so sir,' the grey haired lady replied, becoming animated. 'No one else seems to care as I do. Seeds simply drop to the ground, scattering and either get blown away or washed into puddles when it rains.'
     She looked up meeting his gaze again, becoming more confident with each passing moment. He appeared to be shaking his head slowly.
     'That's not the point.'
     'Isn't it sir? Oh dear,' she repeated. 'I'm sorry then...'
     The policeman was becoming exasperated. 'Are you?'
     'No sir.'
     'You're not sorry?' he asked in bewilderment.
     'Not really sir. I...' The lady wrung her hands again, shifting from one leg to the other, mouth twisting in confused contortion.
     The policeman crossed his arms. 'What am I to do with you, eh?' He stared at her, puzzled and confused, not really sure of the next step to take.
     The lady thought for a moment, her face darkening. 'You won't put me in jail will you sir? She coughed, her throat restricting with anguish. 'I mean, I'd simply hate it there - all cooped up and no garden to attend, no flowers or trees to look at or smell after the rain. I wouldn't even see the rain fall or the sun shine, would I?'
     The tall burly man stood erect, rolling his eyes. 'Certainly not! But what I think I will do,' he replied hesitantly. He placed an index finger against a cheek, deep in thought.
     Silence.
     'Is what sir?' the lady asked meekly, not really wishing to know his answer. She began to shake in fear of any consequences.

At that crucial moment, I awoke from the dream in somewhat of a lather, feeling more than a little guilty. I stared at the darkened outline of the few pieces of furniture dotted around my room, thinking about the dream I'd just experienced. I couldn't help smiling to myself knowingly, and bit my bottom lip slightly, aware a lot of the dream was true to life. 
     As the morning sunlight began peering around the edge of the long bedroom curtains pulled ajar, a pink glow flickered around the walls, casting a warm ambience upon the bed. Sitting on an old antique cabinet beside the bed, the radio played the BBC World Service theme music. The program had ended and it was time to greet another day.
     The winter morning dawned, rosy-fingered clouds marbling the sky with soft shades of pink and blue littering the hills in the distance.

      After breakfast I slid open the long door leading to the covered patio and gazed out over my relatively new garden.
     I'd worked hard in completely renovating it after discovering the roots of two large fig trees had in the past, complete free range of the garden, wandering at will causing a lot of damage. The largest root was a monster, having entered under the concrete of a storage area behind the double garage. It had not only lifted a very thick, large section of concrete path several inches high, but caused the floor of storage area to crack badly for several meters. Hence the two trees were removed. Somehow I managed most of it myself and been busy since, after rearranging and enlarging the back border, planting it with new plants - many of them white-flowering. Several new cuttings have been included to one end to be grown on 'for future reference.'
     It's been sheer pleasure watching everything grow on a daily basis. After breakfast I examine each and everyone for signs of new growth and been rewarded. A touch of blue was added in the form of Salvias. Most of the plants have thrived well into the winter season, being carefully chosen accordingly. At the peak of summer and beyond, they'll be expected to tolerate any extremities of heat. Lavenders are ideal for that. Hopefully everything else too.
     Although winter has settled in, many birds were in full song. A quick, constant twittering echoed from a garden nearby and as I listened intently, was unable to identify it. It reminded me of the robins in English gardens. 
     The air was full with freshness, promising to be mild, even a little warm. The lady in the dream breathed deeply and returned to her stove-top in the kitchen, where several groups of seeds were drying out ready for planting.
     She had been collecting seeds from many places over the years, even finding a few small, dried clumps in the odd garden center no one really wanted - needing to be dead-headed anyway. She was saving them the trouble. They might be scattered to the wind, so she found a good use for them - only a few and never took liberties.  Some would be sown soon, others nearer springtime. She smiled knowingly to herself. This summer would be even better than previous ones. She never considered herself wicked, but rather resourceful and creative, watching new plants begin their life, helping, encouraging, feeding, watering with careful nurturing. The tiniest seeds would germinate, bursting forth from the soil into a dizzying number of shapes, exquisite designs, colours and perfumes.
     This life cycle was a constant reminder of how beautiful the world around us is - to be enjoyed and appreciated, never ceasing to fascinate and being as a tiny drop in the ocean, the lady being involved in some small way, took pleasure in watching another cycle of life begin.