After the Storm Human nature revealed

A damaged garden, a grumpy aunt and a wayward daughter – May has much to get into perspective

May stood at the window – the new picture window – and watched the storm raging outside. The ornamental trees at the end of the garden were bending and twisting, in danger of snapping, or at the very least, being pulled savagely from their new planting.

The lovely, curving fence panels at one side were moving against their brackets, groaning and complaining at the force of the wind. Several smaller pots had blown over again and were tumbling and rolling over the patio, shedding a trail of compost over the pale stones. “Set to get worse yet!” Phil appeared at her side, warm and musky from the shower. He always listened to the radio while he shaved and dressed.

“Worse than gale force, apparently.” He was full of information. “One of those Atlantic storms that we get at this time of year… got a bit stronger than usual. Called Doris, apparently.”

He moved across the refurbished room as May snorted.

“I had an aunt called Doris,” she told him, still watching the storm moving untidily through the garden. “Strongwilled and bossy and stubborn.”

“Well-named, then, this storm.” Phil ran water into the kettle. “Coffee?”

“Please – yes, aptly named… Oh, no – there goes the climbing rose. It’s come away from the trellis. But if it lies there, I can tie it back later, perhaps?” This to herself, her mind racing ahead to the moment the storm died down and she could try to restore her precious garden to its usual glory.

“What was she like, then? This aunt of yours?” He felt the need to distract her if he possibly could.

“Oh, she was a real force to be reckoned with. Downed copious amounts of gin and left her money to a cats’ home, apparently.”

Phil grinned to himself and glanced over his shoulder. His wife was still standing at the window where he’d left her when he went upstairs, some thirty minutes earlier. Absent-mindedly, her fingers were picking at a thread from her long cardigan. Her anxiety was tangible.

He tried again. “I suppose that the name of a storm – or a hurricane, or whatever – always reminds someone of someone else,” he remarked and poured hot water onto the coffee granules in two mugs. “There was once a Hurricane named Charley – same as our dog at the time and he was as mad as a box of frogs. I cut out the newspaper headline and pinned it on our notice board in the kitchen… bit of a laugh, really.”

As soon as the words were said, he regretted it. May’s eyes blazed.

“At least a stupid dog can be disciplined. There’s nothing I can do about this blasted wind destroying the garden! Except stand here and watch it doing its worst.”

“Here.” He moved alongside her and handed her a mug of coffee. They stood together for a few minutes, watching with horror and hopeless dismay as the storm gathered strength and, it seemed, became increasingly angry and wantonly destructive.

“It’s like… like…” May struggled to hold her emotions in check. And he understood, he really did. She had spent so much time and effort creating this beautiful oasis out of a mean little plot. She had opened it out, changed the layout and created areas of planting and seating, with an arbour and well-placed trellis work, varying heights of pots and planters and an assortment of driftwood and artefacts that made it a work of art.

At dusk, the whole was lit with well-placed light strings and solar lanterns that the gale was now pulling and whipping with intent to destroy.

“It’s like a gang of thugs, enjoying the thrill of smashing it up,” she managed to say.

He shrugged. He wanted to point out that it was the same for everyone –

“It’s like a GANG OF THUGS, enjoying the THRILL of smashing it UP…”

worse for some, even. Especially where trees and power cables were down, slates torn off leaking roofs, sheds blown away… not to mention what was going on at sea. It had all been listed on the radio news; reporters talking against a background of blustering and battering sounds and booming waves. But he knew there was no point. Ironically, they had only just finished the building alterations that had switched the kitchen and dining-room so that the garden was always visible from indoors – seating at the picture window, a dining table with a garden view and an open-plan kitchen that had become more of a family room than a functional box. Very cleverly designed and modern – our garden-kitchen-diner, May had called it.

So what if they couldn’t afford fancy foreign holidays any more? If the kids didn’t visit as often as they might? The changes had been a success and had taken May’s mind off losing her job. The best way to use her redundancy money. No doubt about it.

“I just love it all,” she had breathed when the builders packed up and left her to reclaim the garden where their tarpaulins had shielded the patio. And stepping through the French windows into the morning sunshine, he had known that she was right.

Now this. She couldn’t move from the picture window, entranced by the savage destruction and her own helplessness. “I went out,” she murmured, “when you were in the shower – I lifted some of the lanterns down and moved as much as I could…”

He tried a thin-lipped smile and left her there. It would come to an end; May would start again. She always did. He had never known her to give up – not when faced with her father’s dementia, her mother’s sudden heart attack, the kids leaving home and the dog having to be taken to the vet for the last time.

Even when Gilly was suspected of shoplifting and running with the wrong crowd, May had stood strong where he had wanted to hide away and give up on the lot of them. She’d come through. She always did. “Going to check out the daytime news,” he spoke over his shoulder, knowing she hadn’t really heard.

He abandoned her to her impotent

vigil at the window, her fingers flicking in irritation and frustration, waiting, waiting to start again, to pick up and rebuild, while the forecasters tracked Doris across the land and the reporters spoke of road chaos, airport closures, emergency services overwhelmed and selfless acts of bravery and support.

All manner of threat and disruption and trouble. Each on a scale of its own. Each with its own life-changing and daychanging consequences. All interspersed with weather reports and predictions. “Two o’clock.” “What’s two o’clock?” She stood still at the window. He had turned off the television and was wondering about lunch – ask her, or make it, or offer to take her out somewhere?…

“Doris will move on from here at about two o’clock,” he repeated what he had just heard. “Can they be so sure?” “Apparently. Yes.” He watched her shoulders fall and the tension dip slightly. She sighed deeply.

“Home-made bread and soup?” she suggested. And here was her strength returning.

She moved to the cooker, found a pan and began slicing onions, heating oil and chopping vegetables. He sat at the table and was grateful all over again for her ability to dig deep and think beyond the immediate troubles, to keep things moving on.

The sound of the blender drowned out the howl and roar of the wind. He placed mats and cutlery on the table and fiddled with a spoon. The smell of the soup was warm and reassuring; her home-made bread a comfort. He spread butter liberally.

“We’ll work on it together – this afternoon,” he said and was rewarded with a smile.

“Thanks – bit like when Aunt Doris left,” she said. In answer to his quizzical look, she added, “For such a formidable woman with such strong views and big ideas, she always arrived unannounced and left us in a state of shock.”

“Oh? You didn’t mention her much before now.”

May tore at a piece of her bread. “She didn’t live far away from us… I suppose she was around a lot when I was small, but she only came into focus for me when I was in my teens – I was remembering just now when I was watching Storm Doris…” A pause as she sipped her soup. “You sure you’re not just making her up to match?” he laughed.

“No! I think she was an aunt – or even great-aunt – of my father. But she’d long gone when I met you… A bit sad, really, when you think about it – all forgotten until they named a storm after her!”

“May – they didn’t really name it after your aunt!”

She grinned. “I know that! But they might just as well have done… I was thinking how she’d arrive and be offered tea, say she’d prefer a gin and then finish the bottle while criticising everything we were doing.”

“Oh dear.” Phil thought of May’s hard working father, and a mother who tried to make so much of her modest way of life.

“Oh dear, indeed. Poor old Mum suffered in silence, but she took it all then spent days mentally putting everything back together. I can see that now.” “And back then? How did you cope?” May finished her soup and wiped her mouth with a linen napkin.

“Oh, you know me – same as now. I stormed around, banged about a lot and was generally a teenager with a nuisance visitor… Couldn’t wait for her to go – a bit like today with Storm Doris.”

“But less of the teenager now,” he ventured and was rewarded with a sheepish grin.

Surprisingly, Storm Doris did move on at about two o’clock, giving them several hours to work outside.

May was grateful for help that afternoon; together, she and Phil re-tied and staked and replaced, until May was satisfied there was little evidence of Doris’ visit. At dusk, when the solar lanterns flickered weakly after so little sunlight, they had more or less restored order.

Moving back indoors, May checked the slow-cooker casserole while Phil poured wine and switched on the news.

A little ashamed of her previous angst, May perched on the arm of a chair, taking in reports of Doris in all her destructive fury.

“I need to phone Gilly,” she said and reached for the handset.

“Hi, Mum!” Such a relief to hear Gilly was her chirpy old self after all the troubled years. So much to feel grateful for. Never mind the garden…

“Bit noisy here,” Gilly went on. “Old Doris has reached us and is making a right old racket!”

“Are you OK?” May wanted to know, watching Phil’s anxious face.

“Fine… we’ve a few trees down, but everyone’s OK. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

May sipped her wine. All her anger, anxiety, frustration and helplessness was wiped out by a storm that touched her and moved on.

“Absolutely… We’ve got away lightly here, too,” she added, ignoring Phil’s raised eyebrow.

May felt a surge of gratitude as Gilly chatted on happily.

“As long as you’re all OK, that’s all that matters,” May said as they rang off.

“I’ll drink to that.” Phil raised his glass. They’d weathered the storm after all.

“Aunt Doris ARRIVED unannounced and left us in a STATE OF SHOCK”