13 of 99

by Jules Red

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I hold the pebble I have just picked up from the ground in my hands. It feels smooth and hot. Another warm day. A couple stroll through the gate and walk towards the pond holding hands as all around them people are settled on the grass either enjoying a book, or in a circle with children of varying sizes weaving between them. I remain on the bench and look around the place I think of as my garden. The gardeners have made a good display for this year - using mainly yellows and oranges in front of me as warm and bright as the burning sun. I look down at the red pebble in my hand and squeeze it tightly. Since childhood I have always loved to hold stones in the palm of my hand. There is something very grounding about holding a pebble.
The yellow and orange flowers sway in front of me as if they are overjoyed at being alive. Maybe they are! My eyes wander to the left side of me to the main entrance of this Royal park. Straight across the police look hot and bored and may be looking forward to ending their shift. The day looks busy but calm.

Not like that night 25years ago...

She had been happy at first sitting on the second bench from the end of the path. She had giggled like a naughty kid rather than a mother of three, as she told my older sister her confidences. Me and my brother wandered off bored now and again, finding more interesting things to consider in the park. My sister remained with my mum watching her swig more and more wine and sway more and more like the flowers in the gardens. At some point my sister called us over. We could see why when we got there - mum had drank herself ill again, couldn't even stand.
"what shall we do?"
My sister thought a few moments. Her face screwed up with concentration.
"We need to phone Auntie and Uncle- they need to come and get her- we can't get her home like this".
We went to the pay phone and made the call, worried about dropping her in it but what else were we to do?
The rest is a blur, when we got back we couldn't find her. I remember walking down the path, my sister distressed and crying, me and my brother numb and silent and feeling too tired to walk.
The police took us in until our uncle arrived to drive us all to our cousins house. They had found her in a heap and scraped her up off the floor.

Years later we had all got away from her and I was living in a youth hostel. I decided to hi-jack her corner and took two bottles of wine with me. I sat opposite her bench though, up on the hill. I didn't waste no time emptying the bottles and was soon flat on my back and staring upwards at the sky and trees. Through my soon drunken eyes I just laid back and waited to learn something. Soon there were police officers looming above me. I wasn't in the mood for moving yet so ended up handcuffed and in the back of their van. We were pretty horrible to each other until they discovered I was under 18. Then they drove me back to the hostel and left me being lectured by the staff. Still the park drew me to it like a magnet. I eventually got bored of getting escorted back to my room by the police. I started to drink less and less outside and went inside pubs with my friends instead. I sensed that the park did not want me drinking there. There were times I got drunk there that the wind would rage through the trees and I imagined I heard her calling my name.

Now I go to the park and sit in the gardens when I need to think. My garden has taught me to listen to it and to draw conclusions to problems. Like all you get from laying drinking all day is the flu and a fight with the police. I hold the pebbles in my hands like little chunks of reality. Sometimes they are so warm you can put them on your cheek and feel kissed by the sunshine. Other times they are colder than ice cubes. Hot and cold, just like life.

I stand up from my bench and throw my handbag over my shoulder. Time to catch the train home so I walk towards the gate. As I leave I hear the echoing footsteps behind me of three children running and playing and having fun - so it wasn't all bad then. Perhaps you can grow beautiful things from bad seeds.

Learn more about this author, Jules Red.

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