THE BUCKET LIST

 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. Nancy stood, and with a huge grin on her face read from her millboard. “Pamela, you have completed two of your quests, Billy you have completed three; Owen you have only completed one, but as you know it is still being adjudicated by the committee as stealing ladies’ underwear from washing lines is not considered in keeping within the rules of the competition. Jill, you Harry and Mavis have yet to complete any of your challenges. Frances and Paul, you both have four a piece and William and Janet you both have nine each, so it looks like it’s between you two.  The first to complete their last quest will become this year’s champion.”  Everyone applauded again as some of their challenges were rather scarry.

          Nancy looked at William. “I understand that you are being held up by the weather for your tandem parachute jump, and Janet,” She paused as she re-read from her notes. “I don’t understand. “A walk into the past?”

          Janet smiled and gently nodded to Nancy. “It’s a surprise, so I shan’t let on love if that’s alright.”

          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 church of Saint Mary’s on the corner of the ancient forest.  The old priest went through the ceremony of handfasting; gently binding their hands together with a cord.  They exchanged their vows, kissed, then carefully jumped over the broom.  As their feet touched the ground, everything vanished. Only the stillness of the cold night remained.

          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 forest of Mundon with a smile on her face.  That night the committee of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Championship declared that even though Janet had passed away, she had achieved her quest and was voted the winner. 

Copyright Bob French