I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how we are drawn to nature when we say goodbye to loved ones who have died, and when we want to remember them later. I’ve also been writing about some very rich men who don’t ever want to die, and are keen to distance themselves from nature, in all its aspects.
This has coincided with my sorting papers left by Angela (my late wife) and re-discovering one of her short stories. It’s about a woman, Connie, who misses her late husband, and is having to confront her fears, both of living alone and of reptiles.
Harry’s Vine was written in the late 1980s. It was short listed for the 1990 Swanage Literary Festival short story prize, but as far as I am aware it has not been published before now. I’m posting it here to honour Angela’s memory, and also as a counter to the dissociation sought by the long life billionaires I profiled in my previous two posts.
*****
Harry’s Vine
By Angela Hamblin
Connie Tremayne had been looking for a suitable place to plant the vine when she made her terrible discovery. The garden around Eden Cottage was thick with brambles but Andy had found a clear patch beside the old brick compost heap.
‘It must have proper support,’ Connie had said, pulling aside the tumbling ivy and investigating the dry stone wall which separated her plot from the heathland beyond. She ran her fingers over the stone slabs, enjoying the feel of the coarse, gritty surface when suddenly she leapt back, gasping, her hands clutching her chest. Andy saw her stricken face and moved towards her. Resting in a shallow crevice, inches from where her hand had been, dark shiny coils glistened in the late afternoon sun.
‘It’s OK’, he said, reaching out to steady her. ‘It won’t hurt you.’
‘Pack up the van,’ Connie wailed.
‘But Mum, they’ve only just unloaded.’
‘I don’t care. I can’t live here now. Not with that - ‘
Andy put his arm around her and stopped her from running out to the van. He found a stool and sat her down quietly inside the back porch while he paid the removal men.
‘I’ll put the kettle on, he shouted from the kitchen. ‘Then I’ll go and sort out our friend. What shall we call it?’ He stuck his head out of the window. ‘How about Gertrude?’
Connie laughed.
‘There’s no sign of it now,’ he said later. ‘But why don’t you come back with me?. At least for tonight. You know how the kids love it when you stop over.’
They sat for a moment. Connie shook her head. “‘No. Andy,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of you to offer but I’ve got to face up to being on my own. I can’t come running to you and Lucy every time I have a problem, can I?’
He sighed. ‘Maybe it’s still a bit soon.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I just had a silly moment, that’s all. Really, I’m fine now. Don’t worry.’
Connie smiled as she waved goodbye from the cottage gate. Andy’s green estate car pulled away and disappeared up the narrow lane. She felt bereft. She turned, slowly retracing her steps up the moss covered path, her body heavy with an almost unbearable ache for Harry. In the back porch she could see the vine she’d bought in his memory, wilting in its plastic pot. In twenty-six years of marriage he’d never known a day’s illness. She couldn’t believe it when the phone call had come. ‘No,’ she’d insisted, ‘it’s a mistake. Not Harry. He’s never suffered with his heart.’ But there was no mistake. On his way to work that morning, they told her, he’d had a massive coronary. He was dead before the ambulance arrived. Connie turned her face away, struggling with the memories.
‘Come on. Don’t start moping. It won’t do you any good.’ She rinsed the tea things vigorously under the cold tap., then emptied cup after cup of cold water into the parched soil until very slowly the leaves of the vine uncurled.
Connie had a restless night and was awakened by the shrill screeching of starlings. Her shoulder ached with cramp and her mind was troubled. She had to know if Gertrude was still there. She dressed quickly, found her new rubber boots and unlocked the back door.
It had rained in the night and a damp earthy smell hung in the air. She picked her way cautiously through the brambles and along the winding stepping-stone path, until she reached the old wooden seat. A spade, obviously used for shovelling compost, stood rusting in the ground beside it. She forced herself to look along the wall. Nothing. Connie’s relief was intense. Then, as she turned to go, the thought occurred to her: if Gertrude wasn’t in the wall, where was she? Connie’s mind threw up half-forgotten stories of snakes in the plumbing, rising up when the toilet was flushed. Stay calm, she told herself. Think. There has to be a rational solution to this.
The voice of the lady from the Dorset Trust for Nature Conservation was kindly but firm, ‘It sounds like a small grass snake to me,’ she said, after Connie had described Gertrude and asked, as casually as she could, if the Trust could arrange to have her removed. ‘They’re totally harmless, you know, and very good for the garden. In fact,’ she confided, ‘you’re quite privileged to have one. They only like nice gardens.’ As Connie replaced the receiver she felt strangely flattered, but her unease remained.
By afternoon she was afraid to go in the garden at all. She sat, like a prisoner, looking out through the kitchen window. She couldn’t unpack either. Stacked around her stood bulging cardboard boxes. This is ridiculous, she told herself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s fear of the unfamiliar, that’s all.
The small purpose-built library, beside the village hall, didn’t have many books on snakes, and Connie had to make do with A Children’s Illustrated Book of Nature.
Grass snake: large females have been recorded up to six feet long.
- Oh dear.
If disturbed may hiss and strike with closed mouth, rarely bites. Often voids evil-smelling contents of anal gland when handled, and may feign death, laying on back with mouth open and tongue hanging out.
Oh Harry. I’m really trying to cope, but I’m not sure I’m up to this.
They feed on frogs and toads and small mammals which they swallow whole.
Is it too late to go back? Where would I live?
The memory of the old house with its clipped lawn and neat flower borders brought a lump to her throat. She turned the page.
The adder or viper preys mainly on mice and will even tackle a weasel.
- I can’t go back. And I can’t stay. What am I to do?
Britain’s only poisonous snake is recognised by the distinctive zig-zag along its back.
The hair on her scalp tingled as the night terrors of her childhood took form and shape on the page before her.
The speed of the adder’s strike is so fast the human eye cannot follow the movement.
Fort-seven years dropped away and she was once again the child who, shrieking, was led by teacher from the Reptile House.
She slammed the book shut and stood up. The thing had to be settled once and for all.
She walked back to the cottage feeling like a murderess. In the fridge she discovered a can of lager left behind by Andy. She tore off the metal ring and surprised herself by drinking straight from the can, then stepped out into the garden.
Standing well back she scanned the entire length of the wall. Then again, more slowly. Her body gave an involuntary shiver even before her brain registered the presence of the smooth olive skin. But she didn’t move. She drank. The cold liquid relieved the tightness of her throat. Then Gertrude moved. The can dropped from Connie’s grasp. Slowly the coils unwound and vanished into the wall. Connie stood, transfixed. As the tail disappeared into one crack so the head appeared in another, forked tongue flickering. Connie’s heart raced. But she stood her ground. She watched as Gertrude slithered slowly out of the wall and onto the grass, directly in front of her.
Connie reached for the spade with trembling hands, yanking it from the ground with a strength she didn’t know she possessed. One blow and it would all be over. She swung the spade high above her head, gripping it hard despite her sweaty palm. Gertrude stopped, her lightning tongue flicking in and out. Then the pointed snout pushed forward, turned towards Connie and reared up. Blood pounded through Connie’s body, hot, then cold. Do it. Do it. Now.
For a split second the narrow head arched, held taut, then veered away, almost scurrying through the long grass. Connie watched. Gertrude was making for the compost. When she reached it she thrust her head up over the first brick, hauled her small body into the sanctuary of the rotting vegetation, and was gone.
Connie remained quite still, the muscles in her arms quivering, damp skin sticky beneath her light cotton dress. Slowly she lowered the spade and let it fall. The sun burnt hot on the back of her neck and she sank down into the wooden seat, shaded now by the tall rhododendron. Her gaze returned again and again to the compost and she imagined Gertrude curled up inside. She hadn’t been about to attack, after all, only in a hurry to get back home. The thought made Connie smile.
She closed her eyes. A soft breeze rippled across her face. There was such lot to be done and she’d wasted so much time. Maybe, if she made a start now, she could get the china washed and put away by tea-time. And then tomorrow, if the weather held, she’d plant Harry’s vine.