The Magic Carpet

IPARK the car and look out at the old electricity sub-station with its crumbling brickwork and mossy roof, pocked with missing tiles. The hours I spent kicking a football against that red brick wall. I’m surprised it’s still standing. Must be 40 years ago now.

My reflection in the rear-view mirror confirms the passing years: puffy eyes flanked by crow’s feet and grey-flecked hair.

It feels strange to be back. Much has changed.

The wide, empty pavements, once bordered by neatly manicured grass verges, have given way to metallic hedgerows of badly parked cars.

Houses stand disfigured by ungainly extensions, plastic windows and asphalt front gardens.

In contrast, Grandma’s house, like the sub-station opposite, has been neither modernised nor maintained, its warped window frames and cracked front door now masked behind weeds and untamed creepers.

Wedged on crooked tiles, the wrought-iron gate resists my push.

I try again. Grudgingly it whines and scrapes open.

Inside the house it’s dingy and cold. Limp wallpaper peels from damp walls and thick dust clings to yellowed skirting boards and picture rails.

I switch on the light. The low wattage bulb struggles to illuminate the dreariness.

I can hear Grandma’s voice in my head.

“Turn off that light; you’re wasting money.”

I shiver in the chill of the dark hallway. It reminds me that the house had rarely felt warm.

Yet a glimpse at the old fireplace, through a chink in the front room door, reminds me of winter evenings when Grandma and I would play cards in front of a glowing log fire.

The sight of the old red and fawn rug triggers memories of Grandma and me huddled together clad in fur hats and gloves.

Our flying carpet was taking us to Antarctica to look for penguins.

Did I ever show Grandma appreciation, I wonder, as I think of all the times that she took care of me when Mum was working?

Probably not, I admit to myself – an admission that Helen would no doubt allude to as one of my rare moments of self-reflection.

Why am I thinking about Helen?

We’ve been separated for nigh on 18 months, yet she’s still in my head. Her stock accusations still haunt me.

“You’ve always taken everything for granted. You never have time for me or the kids; you think money

The rug might be tattered and old, yet it held a whole lifetime of memories . . .

is everything.”

“Yeah, and who earns the money to pay for the children’s education and holidays, and everything else?” I’d lash out.

Crushed by the vitriolic blame game that’s just played out in my head, I sit on the stairs for a few minutes to calm down.

The familiarity of the hallway, despite its dreariness, reminds me that I always felt safe with Grandma.

She’d been dependable and fun. She’d been happy to spend time with me.

Had I been there for my own children, I ask myself. Or Helen?

Touching the rug feels reassuring, as if connecting me to a time and place when things seemed straightforward and predictable.

My heart tells me to keep it, but my head reminds me that it will only add to the clutter in my overcrowded garage, which is already bursting with the furniture and bits and pieces that Helen and I divvied up when we parted.

It will have to go.

Each tug on the heavy rug brings a protest of dust, and within seconds I find myself choking.

I prise open the sash window and gulp in the fresh air, unaware that I’m being observed until a faint kindly voice enters my consciousness.

“Andrew?”

I turn to see an elderly lady with a wrinkled broad smile waving to me.

“It is Andrew, isn’t it?” “Yes,” I reply.

“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been knocking at your door for the past few minutes.” “No, sorry. I was . . .” With a hint of mischief, she smiles.

“You don’t remember me, do you? I knew it was you as soon as I saw you.

“You haven’t changed. I remember you when you were this high,” she continues, raising her hand a metre off the ground.

Haven’t changed? I think back to my grey face in the rear-view mirror only half an hour ago.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I reply.

“I’d know you anywhere,” the response comes as I open the front door.

“Would you?” I reply, bemused. “Did I really look this battered at six years old?”

She laughs.

“The broken greenhouse in my garden might jog your memory,” she continues with a wry smile.

Immediately I feel like a guilty child, as I recall Gran telling me not to kick the ball too hard, otherwise it would smash the neighbour’s greenhouse – which it finally did.

“Oh, yes, the greenhouse. You must be Mrs Jarman?”

“I thought you might remember my name,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye.

“Wasn’t it two weeks’ pocket money that went towards the repairs?”

“How could I forget? A rather painful experience for a young boy.”

“Boys will be boys,” she replies warmly. “I’ve come to say how sorry I am about your grandmother. And your mother.

“No-one could have predicted that she’d be snatched away so soon after your grandma’s passing.

“You know, it seems only yesterday that your mum and I were chatting about how your grandma was doing.

“What a time you’ve had. Your grandma and I were such good friends. That is, until . . .” She hesitates.

“Thank you,” I reply, unsure of what to say next.

An awkward silence follows.

“I wonder if you’d like to come next door for a cup of tea?”

Excuses flit through my mind, but before I can pick one she speaks again.

“I just put the kettle on. I’ve got some old photos that might interest you.”

I hesitate, aware that time is pressing on.

“I should be making tracks home.”

Mrs Jarman is having none of it.

“You need something to give you a bit of energy at times like these,” she assures me, turning the key in her front door.

As soon as I enter, the musty dark hallway and the cluttered front room transport me back 40 years.

I immediately think of myself at six years old, sitting with Grandma.

“We all used to sit in here,” Mrs Jarman says.

“I know,” I shoot back, rather more sharply than I intended.

“Of course you do.” Her reply is perceptive and kindly.

The sound of the kettle whistling breaks the uneasiness.

“I’ll make the tea.”

“Where is Mr Jarman?” I enquire as Mrs Jarman returns with a full tray.

“Oh, he passed away several years ago now.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, wondering if I’d been told but too wrapped up in my own affairs to care.

Mum would probably have mentioned it.

“Thank you. You learn to cope with loss; it just takes time.

“It’s not that you forget. You somehow learn to accept and it gets easier. I’m lucky to have so many good memories of Bill,” she continues, as she glances at photos displayed neatly on her sideboard.

Not quite knowing how to respond, I nod.

“How do you like your tea?”

“Milk. No sugar, please.” She hands me a delicate fine bone china cup and saucer.

“Thank you.”

“And here, remember these? You used to love my flapjacks.” She smiles, placing a small plate on the table.

“How could I forget?” I return the smile, not letting on that I had forgotten. We sip our tea.

“And Helen, your wife? It is Helen, isn’t it? And the children. How is everyone?”

“The children have grown up now. They’ve both left home. Anna’s at university and Tom’s gone travelling.” Mrs Jarman smiled.

“You must be so proud. And Helen? What’s Helen doing with herself now that she’s finally got a bit of free time?”

“Er, well . . .” I stumble. Mrs Jarman quickly picks up on my reticence.

“I hope that she’s well. You’ve both had such a lot to deal with recently.”

“We separated about eighteen months ago,” I blurt out, almost unable to look her in the eye.

“I’m sorry to hear that.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You have been in the wars”

You have been in the wars.”

Mrs Jarman’s turn of phrase strikes home. It makes me want to cry.

It’s all been too much. Losing two of the most important people in my life in the space of a year had been pretty traumatic.

Not to mention walking out on Helen the previous year.

I realise that I’ve somehow blanked it all out. It was easier to go to work and keep busy.

Yet now, sitting peacefully in Mrs Jarman’s sitting-room with tea and flapjack in hand, the pain washes over me.

“Yes, life can be difficult at times,” Mrs Jarman replies quietly.

I appreciate her quiet acceptance, but can’t help feeling a deep sense of shame as I think of Helen and how selfish I’d been.

Through the years I’d dragged her and the children all over the world while pursuing my dream job, mixing with the great and the good and acting like I was a big shot.

There was nothing in it for her, and it wasn’t as if I was well paid.

I took Grandma for granted, too, only dropping in for brief visits when I was back in the UK, more as an act of duty than one of appreciation.

If only I’d been less demanding of others

as well as of myself.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, before Mrs Jarman turns the conversation back to Grandma’s house.

“I gather you were having a final clear-out? I saw the For Sale sign come down a few days ago.”

“Yes, the new people will be moving in next week, so I had to get down here and satisfy myself and the estate agent that the house had been cleared.”

An uneasy expression flashes across Mrs

Jarman’s face, which I read to be anxiety about what this means for her.

“You’ll like the new neighbours,” I quickly reassure her.

“It’s a young couple with a son about five or six years old. They seem very nice.”

Mrs Jarman looks relieved and I realise that my invitation to tea was at some level linked to her concern about the new neighbours.

“Oh, but I think the young lad likes football, so you’d better watch your greenhouse.”

“It’s so dilapidated now, it won’t make any difference.” She chuckles, glancing through the

French doors into the overgrown garden.

I follow her gaze. “Anyway, you’ve just about sorted everything out now, have you?” she continues.

“Yes, just got an old rug to throw on top of the skip. It’s so dusty.”

“It’s not that rustcoloured one?”

I nod.

“Yes. Well, faded red and fawn, with tattered edges.”

“Oh, but you can’t get rid of that.”

This is the second time today that Mrs Jarman has taken me by surprise.

“I briefly thought about keeping it, but it’s so old and worn, and I’ve nowhere to put it.”

“But we all get old and somewhat tattered. Should we all be discarded?”

“Well, no,” I reply, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. “But it is only a rug.”

“Yes, but it isn’t just any old rug, is it? It holds wonderful memories.”

“But how do you remember them?” I ask.

“Once you invited me to join you and your grandma for a story on the rug – you called it the magic carpet.

“I remember it so well. It was such fun. I think we flew to India.”

Sheepishly I smile at Mrs Jarman.

It seems so ridiculous now, Mrs Jarman and I having a story together on the magic carpet and flying to India.

“You were very young,” she quickly continues.

The clock on the mantelpiece strikes five.

“Gosh, is that the time? I really should go.”

“What about another cup of tea?” Mrs Jarman enquires with pot in hand.

“No, thank you. I really must be going.” I smile apologetically.

“But we haven’t looked at the photos yet,” she replies, casting her eyes across to a shelf full of photo albums.

My first thought is that it will take hours to look through so many pictures.

“Perhaps another time?” I reply, aware that I sound vague and that we might not cross paths again.

Her disappointment is obvious, but she quickly gathers herself and encourages me on my way.

“Of course. It’s almost dark.”

“Thank you for the tea and the chat. Your flapjacks are just as delicious as they always were.”

“The old recipes are the best,” she asserts with a broad smile.

“Yes, old things sometimes are the best,” I agree, mindful of the richness of our encounter.

“Say hello to Hel . . .” Mrs Jarman calls as I begin to walk down the garden path.

I stop and turn back to see Mrs Jarman looking rather awkward.

“Well, only if you see her,” she corrects herself.

“I will remember you to Helen, if I see her,” I reply after a short pause. “When I see her.”

An uncertain but hopeful smile spreads across Mrs Jarman’s face, and in that instant I know that, just like Mum and Grandma used to, she wants the best for me.

I hesitate at the gate.

“Are you going to be around next Tuesday?” I ask suddenly.

“I was planning to drop over with the house keys for the new neighbours then.

“Perhaps I could pop in and see your photos?”

Mrs Jarman beams.

“I’ll look forward to it. I’ll make more flapjacks.”

“I’d better get that rug in the car. See you next week.”

The End.