Memories

Today was a good day. The blooms were on the trees, like it used to be, before all the fuss.

“What are you staring at?” Light and friendly, the voice came from behind her.

“The trees,” said Arabella, though she knew it would annoy the girl. “The blossoms came back.”

The girl sighed. “You shouldn’t look out of the window so much. You know it upsets you.”

Arabella turned round slowly. A frown touched the edge of her lips, and deepened when she observed the girl. Young and pretty, with dark hair that reminded Arabella of herself. Reminded her of when she had also been young and pretty and could have had the pick of all the boys.

“It doesn’t upset me,” said Arabella sharply. “It reminds me of happier times.”

For a moment, concern clouded the young girl’s face. For a moment, it seemed she would say something.

Then it cleared, and she smiled.

“I’ll go and get us a nice cup of tea, shall I? I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s no need to talk to me like I’m a child,” Arabella snapped. Pointlessly. The girl had already left the room. Arabella turned back to her trees. Immediately, she felt calmed. She didn’t know why she felt so angry lately. Like the world was changing and she couldn’t keep up. Not like the old days. Nowadays, nothing stayed the same. Nothing stayed in the same place. Someone kept moving her things, she was sure. Crept into her room into the night and moved things around so nothing could be found in the morning. When she was younger, everything had stayed in its proper place. The youth of today, couldn’t even be trusted to keep the same hair colour from one second to the next. At the least she could trust the girl with that. Dark hair, the girl had. Like Arabella, back when she had been young and pretty and could have had the pick of all the boys…

Arabella woke up with a start. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Heaven knew how long she had been sitting there, eyes closed, unaware. A cup of tea was by her side. Arabella reached for the tea, knowing deep down it would be cold, that the girl would have to heat it up again.

It was a moment before she realized the source of her disquiet. When she saw it, an involuntary cry of terror escaped her lips. Her hand. When had it gotten so wrinkled? It was not her hand. Her hand was not her hand.

“Girl,” she cried, looking to the window, looking for her beloved trees to calm her down.

The trees were gone. Instead, dark, wicked shapes reached to the sky with iron fingers.

“Girl,” Arabella cried. “Girl.”

From the corridor came hurried footsteps, and the door clicked open.

“What’s wrong?”

“The blossom?” Arabella spoke urgently, her voice cracking in its urgency. “Where is it? Where did it go?”

The girl paused. When she spoke, it was slowly and with an attempt to calm.

“I said not to look out of the window. Didn’t I say?”

“Where is it?” screeched Arabella. “Where did the blossom go? What happened to the trees.” She began to thrash, lashing out with weak arms, trying to find something to blame, something to smash. Instantly, the girl was crouched by her side, arms around her, holding the frails arms back. For a moment they fought, but the girl was stronger, even though she was young and dainty.

“Shh,” she told Arabella. “shh. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

Arabella continued to struggle. “It’s not fine. My trees are gone. Who’s taken them.”

“Mum, they cut them down years ago. You know this. Don’t you remember?”

This seemed to infuriate Arabella further. For a moment, she went limp. Then, as the girl’s grasp slackened, Arabella threw herself to one side, putting the girl off balance and allowing her to rip one arm from the embrace.

With a frail fury, she began to beat the girl around the head.

“Impertinence,” she cried. “Who are you calling a mother. Impertinence. I’m no-one’s mother, especially a slip of a thing, barely younger than me.”

“Mum, stop,” cried the girl, but the blows continued to rain down.

“Give me back my trees,” cried Arabella. “I know you took them. I know you take all my things. You took my trees. Give me back my trees.”

“Mum, stop,” cried the girl again, and now she was crying indeed, tears rolling down her face, though the blows were weak and few of them were landing.

Arabella raised her fist one more time, and this time the girl ducked away from the blow, causing Arabella to almost overbalance from her chair.

The girl jumped to her feet and backed away towards the window, her eyes a mixture of anger, fear and pity.

Then anger won, and she threw open the window.

“There,” she shouted. “Have them. Have your precious trees. Let them look after you. Let them wash you, and care for you and make you tea.”

Then she ran from the room, and Arabella was left alone.

Arabella slumped in her chair. It was old, like her. Old and worn and threadbare. Her arm ached, Arabella noticed. Bruised from where her blows had landed, doing no harm to anyone but her. On the carpet, fragments of tea cup lay, dark liquid staining the footworn thread.

Arabella raised her eyes to the window.

There were no trees. Of course there were no trees. The trees were cut down years ago. Now, houses crowded close, telegraph poles threaded between them to link them to a connected world. Arabella wondered how she had forgotten. Forgotten how the orchards had been cleared to make way for the people. A city had grown up around her while she’d slept.

How many years had it been, Arabella wondered. Nowadays it seemed so hard to keep track. Back then, it had all seemed so easy. Now, nothing seemed to stay the same, nothing seemed to stay in one place.

Arabella closed her eyes. She could still see the blossom. Cherry pink, and moulting in the wind. So much of her life had been to the rhythm of that blossom. Her first love. Her first kiss. Her first betrayal. Her first true love. Her first child. When she opened her eyes again, the blossom remained. She remembered sitting by this window, singing songs about the wind, cradling a child in her arms and keeping it protected from the world.

The child’s hair had been dark. Just like the girl. The girl reminded her of the child. Young, and full of fire, and screaming for the joy of being alive. She had known a girl like that once. A girl that reminded her of her. When she had been young. And pretty. And had the pick of all the boys.