- 1 -
A scarred fig tree, branches naked and the flaxen, strappy leaves of bulbs growing wild around its base, mark winter. Camellia bushes, flushed pink with blooms, line an old rendered wall, crumbling now with age. Struggling, the sun warms through threatening clouds and weakly lights the bleached slabs of cracked cement blocks that stretch into a footpath that snakes, disappearing, toward the back door of a large old house. This garden is one of the last remaining in the city and is an unofficial tourist attraction; the house is on the government’s Architectural Curiosity List (Relics of The Early 21st Century).
It is an old building, one that has gone through many changes. Built originally as a gentleman’s bungalow, then turned into maisonettes and later an office, it is now a refurbished retirement home. The limestone walls, once a chalky-white, are now flecked charcoal and green with mould and lichen. A clear expanse of windows reflects the garden, mirroring back the sun.
Inside the day-room, a wall-screen is turned on, blaring out the jagged sound of an advertisement, before returning to the soothing, rhythm of an old 1990s movie. The room is peppered with the elderly. Some slump huddled together in hover-chairs, parked neatly in front of the wall-screen, others perch on ergo-stools, talking animatedly, papery blue-veined hands busy playing vintage Game Boys and Nintendos. Still others are lost in their timeless worlds, ear buds plugged into vintage smart phones and tablets, providing relief from the drudgery of the present. Several small droids dot the room, efficiently overseeing the various needs of the inhabitants of the day-room.
One frail old man sits some distance from the others, and ignoring protocol, has chosen an old, leather junk-chair over the ergo-stool, positioning it in front of the window facing the garden. He sits quietly, gazing out at the old fig tree, hypnotised by the wintry landscape. His hair is a powdery gray, thinning in patches. His once handsome face is marred by liver spots, mouth frayed at the corners. He grips the arms of his chair, knuckles white and strained, as if preparing for a wild ride.
Outside, in the hall leading to the day room, the laughter of children rises to meet the blare of the wall-screen, as families come to visit with their elderly relatives. They are fetched and hovered or walked away to other parts of the house, and despite the cold and impending rain, outside to the garden. The children’s laughter disturbs the old man and rouses him briefly from his garden gaze; he utters a small, heartfelt sigh.
A human nurse approaches the man tentatively and gently asks: ‘Are you all right, Mr Marshall?’ When he doesn’t reply, she slides a nearby lapcoosh onto the old man’s thin legs, then reaches out to pat his hand.
‘No visitors today, then? Tell you what, I’ll be your visitor. I can sit with you awhile.’
The nurse pulls up a hover-chair, and places herself next to him. They both take in the garden, now ghost-like from the misty rain masking the sun. Surprising her, the old man’s voice, proud and strong asks: ‘What do you want to do that for?’
She hesitates before replying kindly: ‘It’s my job, Mr Marshall.’
The old man turns away from the nurse, his attention back to the outside world. And as the rain falls in opaque sheets onto the muddy grass, he gently escapes into sleep, where he dreams the wishing dreams of a sad, lonely man.
- 2 -
As soon as she opened the door, Paton knew.
He stood, body blocking the door frame. He was tall; his long limbs lean, his hair a dirty blond, black eyes quick like a bird’s.
‘I’m Tom,’ he said. ‘Tom Marshall. I’m looking for Paton McLean.’
‘I’m Paton,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Please. Come in.’
She opened the screen door, holding it for him so he could pass. His black leather work-boots were caked thick with dry mud. He didn’t wipe his feet, and she
A scarred fig tree, branches naked and the flaxen, strappy leaves of bulbs growing wild around its base, mark winter. Camellia bushes, flushed pink with blooms, line an old rendered wall, crumbling now with age. Struggling, the sun warms through threatening clouds and weakly lights the bleached slabs of cracked cement blocks that stretch into a footpath that snakes, disappearing, toward the back door of a large old house. This garden is one of the last remaining in the city and is an unofficial tourist attraction; the house is on the government’s Architectural Curiosity List (Relics of The Early 21st Century).
It is an old building, one that has gone through many changes. Built originally as a gentleman’s bungalow, then turned into maisonettes and later an office, it is now a refurbished retirement home. The limestone walls, once a chalky-white, are now flecked charcoal and green with mould and lichen. A clear expanse of windows reflects the garden, mirroring back the sun.
Inside the day-room, a wall-screen is turned on, blaring out the jagged sound of an advertisement, before returning to the soothing, rhythm of an old 1990s movie. The room is peppered with the elderly. Some slump huddled together in hover-chairs, parked neatly in front of the wall-screen, others perch on ergo-stools, talking animatedly, papery blue-veined hands busy playing vintage Game Boys and Nintendos. Still others are lost in their timeless worlds, ear buds plugged into vintage smart phones and tablets, providing relief from the drudgery of the present. Several small droids dot the room, efficiently overseeing the various needs of the inhabitants of the day-room.
One frail old man sits some distance from the others, and ignoring protocol, has chosen an old, leather junk-chair over the ergo-stool, positioning it in front of the window facing the garden. He sits quietly, gazing out at the old fig tree, hypnotised by the wintry landscape. His hair is a powdery gray, thinning in patches. His once handsome face is marred by liver spots, mouth frayed at the corners. He grips the arms of his chair, knuckles white and strained, as if preparing for a wild ride.
Outside, in the hall leading to the day room, the laughter of children rises to meet the blare of the wall-screen, as families come to visit with their elderly relatives. They are fetched and hovered or walked away to other parts of the house, and despite the cold and impending rain, outside to the garden. The children’s laughter disturbs the old man and rouses him briefly from his garden gaze; he utters a small, heartfelt sigh.
A human nurse approaches the man tentatively and gently asks: ‘Are you all right, Mr Marshall?’ When he doesn’t reply, she slides a nearby lapcoosh onto the old man’s thin legs, then reaches out to pat his hand.
‘No visitors today, then? Tell you what, I’ll be your visitor. I can sit with you awhile.’
The nurse pulls up a hover-chair, and places herself next to him. They both take in the garden, now ghost-like from the misty rain masking the sun. Surprising her, the old man’s voice, proud and strong asks: ‘What do you want to do that for?’
She hesitates before replying kindly: ‘It’s my job, Mr Marshall.’
The old man turns away from the nurse, his attention back to the outside world. And as the rain falls in opaque sheets onto the muddy grass, he gently escapes into sleep, where he dreams the wishing dreams of a sad, lonely man.
- 2 -
As soon as she opened the door, Paton knew.
He stood, body blocking the door frame. He was tall; his long limbs lean, his hair a dirty blond, black eyes quick like a bird’s.
‘I’m Tom,’ he said. ‘Tom Marshall. I’m looking for Paton McLean.’
‘I’m Paton,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Please. Come in.’
She opened the screen door, holding it for him so he could pass. His black leather work-boots were caked thick with dry mud. He didn’t wipe his feet, and she
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