Short Story

story

THE GATHERING BY JENNY ENGLAND

They found her early in the morning, propped up on a pillow on her bed, eyes closed, motionless, pale and cold. Serenely dead. An open book lay across her chest. She must have been reading until her very last breath. It was the dog barking that alerted David and Sally, their next door neighbours on the left. The silky terrier, her constant companion rarely barked. They knew instantly when they heard the barking that something must have been amiss. Luckily the back door was not locked so they could let themselves in. We soon gathered in the street after hearing the sad news. I remarked on the odd symbolism of the open book, as she and her life had been far from an open book. Few of us even knew her name let alone where she had come from although it was well known that she had lived in the area for over twenty years. Those who were a little more in the know (and friendly with the postman) revealed that her name was unpronounceable, leading to various suspicions about her origin. Ted, who by all accounts is one very imaginative neighbourhood character indeed, suggested she may have even been a Russian spy. As he was never able to elaborate on this wild idea we dismissed it as pure waffle. The police arrived just after 9 o’clock as is expected in cases like this. Later on we were informed much to the disappointment of some, that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. She was quite elderly. Vera, from across the road estimated she must have been in her early nineties but noone really knew for sure. I often saw her walking the little dog along the beach; just a stones throw from her quaint cottage with its immaculate garden and lawn. From my kitchen window I would watch as she occasionally stopped, picked up an odd piece of driftwood or some shells that had been swept onto the shore from a recent storm, and then carefully pack them into a hessian bag she carried on her back. I used to wonder what she did with all this stuff and how she might spend her days, devoid of human contact. She did, however, have one visitor from time to time. A young man When the ambulance arrived to take her away we stood silent and still. Even though some of us would have liked a closer look, there was really nothing to see. They simply packed her into the back of the van and drove off. I wondered if there was a family somewhere that would organise a funeral but it is more likely it will be a private cremation arranged by some remote government department that takes over in situations like this. The little dog was also whisked away by the police. No-one in the gathering offered to take him so he was off to the pound, I suspect. The gathering started to disperse around 10 o’clock. We all wandered off in various directions, back to our lives. Some off to work, shopping and university, albeit a little late. Others back to their cosy homes to tend to housework or to their small children who had started becoming decidedly restless in the street. We all resolved that day to get to know each other better, keep in touch and never to let such a lonely death in our street ever happen again. But I have not caught sight of many of them since. As for the book? We never did find out its title or what it was about...

mowed her lawns every month or so and was occasionally seen doing a little weeding. So I guess she wasn’t into gardening or felt it was too much for her. She never seemed lonely to me but of course I have never lived on my own for long periods of time so I don’t know how it would feel year after year. She didn’t drive anymore. Once a week she would walk to the bus stop, disappear for the day and then return in a taxi with her shopping. Sometimes the taxi driver would help her in with her parcels. I would like to think she met a friend for lunch or coffee and cake, but I guess I will never know.

We all agreed it was a shame we had not got to know her better. We did invite her to our yearly Christmas street party but she never came. The one day I worried most about her was Halloween. The neighbourhood kids usually get together gather in the street and go from house to house for trick or treats. The young ones are pretty harmless and all finished before dark but the older ones often go on a bit of a rampage throwing eggs and flour at each other and occasionally fighting in the street. A few of the neighbours didn’t make it to the gathering. Many had already left before the hullabaloo began. Old Ted, who we all knew was also in his nineties was probably pottering around in his back garden tending to his vegetable patch totally oblivious to what was going on in the street. He would eventually find out, I was sure, through his daughter who was a regular visitor. Or from a death notices of the local paper, if any was placed but I was more than sure that that was not likely to happen. BIO - Jenny is a freelance writer, astrologer and illustrator based in Sydney Australia. Jenny is now retired and enjoying the freedom to create wonderful stories, poems and drawings when she is not spending time with her grandchildren, walking or tending to her balcony garden.

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