THE BUCKET LIST
By Bob French
The main sitting room of the Dickens Care Home just
outside Purleigh, was buzzing as Jane, the head nurse sounded the evening
gong. Those who had booked their place to watch ‘Gone with the wind’
in the upstairs lounge, for the eighth time, started to make their way out of
the sitting room.
The
card and domino players left by the west wing to play in the conservatory,
whilst Nancy and Albert waited for the mass exodus to settle down.
After
a few minutes, Albert stood and addressed the remaining eight gentle folk as he
sometimes referred to them.
“Right,
everyone, we have just two months left before we declare the winner of the
Dickens Care Home Bucket List Champion of 2019.” Everyone applauded
their achievements.
Janet
smiled and gently nodded to
That
night Janet paid a visit to her closest friend, Gwenavere, who dabbled in the
dark arts. Tea leaves, dice and tarot cards.
Gwenavere
could see the pain in Janet’s eyes and nodded her towards a soft arm
chair. “How you feeling Love.” Janet had been suffering from
osteoarthritis for a long time and found sanctuary in the little bags of herbal
medicine that Gwenavere would dispense to those who needed to get through the
day. Without being asked, she put the kettle on and passed Janet a
small bag of marijuana and watched her sprinkle it into a warm cup of Chamomile
tea. This, she found that it would drive away the pain and allow her to sleep
peacefully. “Now what date are you planning your last quest my love?”
Janet
looked up at her friend. “I was thinking of All Hallows’ Eve. I wouldn’t stand
out.”
Gwenavere
nodded. How you getting out there then. Tis a long way?”
“It’s
only two and a half miles and I have walked it in the day time and during the
night, so I think I can do it.”
It
had just past eleven forty-five on a cold and frosty night in late October as
Janet reached the outskirts of the forest. She paused while she took
a breath, then moved along the muddy path until she came to the old rickety
bench which she had found five years ago, just on the fringes of the dead
Forest of Mundon.
With
a smile, she eased herself down onto the bench and felt a sense of achievement
as mentally she crossed off the last task from her bucket list; to visit the
ancient oaks of Mundon.
After
about ten minutes, she took the flask from her coat pocket, unscrewed the cap
and drank the warm Chamomile tea then lent back to allow the tiny leaves to do
their magic. Feeling the peaceful sensation start to take hold of her old and
frail body, Janet took a deep breath and felt the cold night air start to seep
deep into her lungs until she felt invigorated as though her old body was
coming to life. She stood and slowly walked towards the skeletal
monuments that held secrets of the past that no man would ever hear.
Under
a veil of frost and moonlight, the petrified oaks of Mundon stood like ancient
sentinels, their gnarled limbs twisted in eternal agony. Silver ice clung to
barks long dead, glinting faintly in the cold starlight. A spectral hush hung
over the marshland, broken only by the whisper of wind through hollow branches.
Each tree, lifeless yet looming, casting long skeletal shadows across the frozen
earth.
As
she slowly moved amongst the tombstones of oak, time felt suspended, her breath
visible in the still night air. The oaks, remnants of a forgotten forest, seem
to watch her in silence; ghosts rooted in soil, frozen in time.
The
further she moved into the centre of the forgotten forest, the more she felt
younger, as though some medieval force was gradually occupying her body and
soul. Then she saw them. A series of shooting stars, streaking across the deep
black heavens, leaving their Icey trail briefly before fading into the
distance. A message from the gods she thought as she glanced at her
watch. It was midnight.
Without
thinking she fell to her knees and started to recite a prayer she’d read in a
book of ancient pagan rituals many years ago. Her mumblings were
interrupted by the sound of people singing and playing musical instruments in
the distance. Her inquisitiveness got the better of her and she
stood and started to follow the sound of merriment. Her steps increased until
she felt herself running flat out towards the noise. Suddenly huge
bon fires burst into bright flames in the four corners of the field as though
protecting those who had chosen to celebrate the festival.
The
sounds grew louder, yet she could not see anyone. The pain in her chest started
to burn, but she knew she had to get near to the fire for it to work. The
closer she got to the noise, so the smoke from the huge fire burning in the
centre of the celebrations, started to thin and she could now make out
faces. Her breathing started to labour and the pain was increasing,
forcing her to stumble and she felt herself falling. Then she saw him, her
Jack, the man she had fallen in love with and lived together for some fifty years
before he moved to the other side as Gwenavere explained to her. He ran towards her and cradled
her in his arms.
“You
came my darling, you came.”
“Oh
Jack, I’m hurting my love.”
“Tis
alright my darling, we are together now, it will pass.”
Jack
glanced into the huge fire, then looked into her eyes. “We have but a few
minutes before all this ends, Will you marry me?”
Janet
smiled and nodded. Suddenly they were standing at the altar of the
thirteenth century
The
faint sound of the gentle moaning wind as it passed through the tormented limbs
of the ancient oaks was all that was left of the gathering. In the
stillness of the dawn came the sound of the single bell of Saint Mary’s,
together. With wind and bell woven in a haunting symphony, solemn, and
strangely beautiful in the stillness of a forgotten world.
Janet
was reported missing the following day and after the briefest of searches, was
found sitting up against one of the huge old oak trees in the
Copyright Bob French