Home Guard

Chapter 2

Small boy

We never knew what a hug was, said Grandma Dulcie. She was whipping cream in a plastic container containing a marble, her normally pale face had turned a brilliant shade of vermillion and Jim sat fascinated. Sitting awkwardly at the table in her spartan kitchen he watched her arthritic, manly hands as she gripped the vessel hard and gave it her all: Bingo wings beating faster than a hummingbird’s. My mother died when I was young, she paused for a breath, then started to beat the cream within an inch of its life; and my father never remarried. She stopped to rest and examine the contents. My sisters raised me. We never had any money and we had to make do. Her glasses fogged up briefly and she looked away embarrassed.

Young people nowadays don’t seem to know how to make do. Your mother always at work instead of looking after her family. Your dad working long hours to have flash clothes and that sports car. Who’s raising the children? Us again. What if we weren’t around? We never had grandparents around to help us. Just got by on one wage. We grew our own vegetables and if we were lucky, your grandfather might knock off the odd chook for a special occasion. She stopped for a second to look at the autumn leaves building up on the back lawn. Those damn trees are beggars. Have to get them chopped down.

Jim’s family tree had its own problems. It was slowly withering and dying with curly, infected leaves. The tree was from good stock and should have flourished, but financial pressures and expectations propagated a vine at the roots. A vine that cast a perpetual shadow, used the tree as its host to feed on and eventually strangled it. To the observer the tree was still there keeping up appearances, and holding up strong. But a closer look would reveal it was just a grand, hollow shell harbouring creatures of the night.