WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE: THE THIRD SPACE
Charlotte sat down and took a nibble of the cake. ‘Who’s that man outside, Gran?’
‘What man, lovey?’
‘The man with the chainsaw.’
Granny looked out the window. ‘Oh, him.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘What’s this then?’ Charlotte held up the Post-it note.
‘What’s what?’
Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘This note reminding you to pay him 150 pounds.’
Granny walked over and took the Post-it sticker from her granddaughter’s hand.
Charlotte noticed that she had odd slippers on. Every Christmas she insisted on the same
present; velveteen mules with a furry front edge. She had them in umpteen different
colours. Today she was wearing pink and mauve.
Granny pulled her chin into her neck and opened her eyes wide. The grandfather clock
ticked and a log on the fire popped. ‘Ah, wait a minute, now I remember. Yes that nice
young man. Of course, he wasn’t wearing those overalls, although he did have a long
beard, I remember that. He came and asked if any of these trees needed pruning.’
‘He said you called him out. You know what Mum told you about cold callers. And
now he’s gone and vandalised your lovely tree!’
‘Well, you might think that but actually, it was your grandfather’s idea to plant that
tree. It was also his idea to come and live here. He loved nature and animals and fed all
the birds but I’d much rather be back in town. In our lovely house with the conservatory.’
Gran stared into the middle distance. ‘It gets very lonely out here sometimes. And that
branch was blocking the light for my dahlias.’ She unstuck the Post-it sticker from her
fingertips, screwed it into a ball and threw it in the fire.
A vehement rat-a-tat-tat rattled the door.
Charlotte jumped up and looked out the window. ‘Jesus, Gran. What’ll we do now?
He wants his money. I’ll call Mum.’ She took her phone from her pocket.
‘No, no dear. Don’t do that. I’ll let the dog out; he’ll see him off.’
Now she really has lost it, Charlotte thought. It was at least two years since her dog
had died. Gran, suddenly purposeful, not shuffling at all, walked to the tallboy and
switched on a dust-covered cassette recorder. She turned the volume up to full and the
sound of a barking dog filled the cottage. Then Granny rattled out a short garden rake
from the cubbyhole beneath the stairs and bending forward, scraped the metal tines
against the wooden door as if a vicious dog was scratching to escape.
Charlotte peeped out from the front room window. The woodsman was backing away
down the garden path, his face paling with every step. He ran towards his tools, packed
them up and bundled everything into a white van parked at the end of Granny’s lane. As
his tail lights disappeared into the wood, Gran winked at her granddaughter. ‘Got the job
done for nothing, didn’t I? Not so doolally after all.’
5 | November 2016