the treeless hill

(i remember the day they took nanny away on the stretcher; grampa running after the ambulance not sure what to do; mute panic spiralling from him like a twister; the tent poles of his world collapsing one by one by one.)

i still have the photo of him sitting in the garden inside the old red phone-box mum bought when british telecom were selling them off cheap. she kept her spades in there, her trowels, her garden rakes. mum loved the garden. grampa loved it too. we lived on a treeless hill. the wind tore across it like my father’s murderous breath ripping heads off daisies leaving bewildered stalks poking from a bloodless lawn. when nanny died, grampa came to live on the treeless hill. he didn’t do much those months. just stood on the hill smoking staring smoking some more. mum took him on a cruise; a change of scene; fresh sea air; a new place to smoke. he had his photo taken with the captain. when i look at that photo now, it’s not grampa’s best navy blazer i see, nor the pink garland around his neck celebrating the sea princess’s arrival into hawaii; but the slow puncture of his grief leaking soundlessly from his soul. when he got too frail to stand up to the wind on the hill he took to sitting inside the phone box among the spades the trowels, the garden rakes and from his quiet, windless interior, smoke fag after fag after fag. all too soon he got too frail for the phone box. ended up in the hospital. my sister rang every night from london to ask how he was. the night after he died i picked up the receiver and heard myself tell her he was fine. i have never been one for delivering bad news. when i placed the phone back on its cradle i wandered out onto the treeless hill, carrying the terrible lie, searching for somewhere to hide it.