My father veers into a long, hedge-lined driveway, and the house emerges from the greenery. The Manor House is a remnant of the feudal village Barton St. David once was. My grandfather likes to tease his wife, Sandy, that she only pretends to be embarrassed by the grandeur of the title, but that she secretly enjoys feeling superior to her neighbors.
When we get out of the car, my grandfather is waiting for us. His hand dangles a cigarette, trailing a coil of smoke. His shirt has a few more holes than the last time I saw him; his pants hang looser. He smiles and his face creases into a familiar origami. The socket around his glass eye droops as I press my face into his shoulder.
Sandy emerges from within the house, and I hug her, too. My father starts unloading the car, after his own tempered embrace with his father and a two-cheek kiss with Sandy. My brother wrestles with a suitcase bigger than himself. My mother heads for the kitchen to help with dinner. I will follow suit soon, but at the moment I am drifting away, tugged towards the grounds of the garden.
I step off the gravel of the driveway and onto my grandfather’s croquet lawn, the short blades of grass prim in their uniformity. I have found him lying on his stomach here, face centimeters from the dirt, trimming the lawn with small scissors. Having a well manicured croquet lawn is a reflection of self-respect and dignity, I was told. But I do not spend too long here—this is my brother’s domain. I will wake each morning to hear the click of croquet balls knocking against one another as he practices to beat my grandfather.
I inspect the vegetable beds, survey the squash, potatoes, and beans. It’s miraculous that my grandparents can summon things from the earth that will end up on my plate, slick with butter and studded with herbs. When I was younger, I thought it was only natural that Somerset’s fertile soil should offer us these treats. Only now do I see the phantom forms of my grandparents on their knees, packing soil over seeds and standing in the sun with a hose.
I walk into the field beyond the beds. To my disappointment, it is empty. My grandparents used to lease the land to a farmer who grazed his sheep there. I would tear through the tall grass and lunge at the sheep arms outstretched, my heavy boots thudding with every bound.
On one occasion, I chased the flock down the side of the field. But one lamb, pressed against the fence, didn’t run. I was confused—that was against the rules! It was no fun to chase if they were going to surrender. Chest heaving and arms swinging, I marched up to the creature. It trembled and strained, but didn’t leave the fence. Horrified, I realized its ear had snagged on a wayward wire and ran to find my grandfather. He sauntered over and I tried to match his pace, swallowing my own panic.
When we reached the lamb, my grandfather took two steps back and told me that he didn’t know why I bothered calling him over—all I had to do was unhook the ear. I looked up at him, nauseous at the thought, and shook my head. My grandfather didn’t say anything. He just crossed his arms and watched the trapped animal.
We held the tableau for a moment before I forced myself to reach out toward the lamb. It bleated and shuffled but could not escape. With both hands and gritted teeth, I gripped the ear and slid it back over the wire. Its skin screeched against the metal, but as soon as it was free, the lamb tore off to rejoin its mother. Breathless and proud, I turned toward my grandfather, and he nodded before heading back to the house.
There is a schism in the garden. Sandy has jurisdiction over the greenhouse and vegetable beds, and my grandfather has reign over the floral areas. I walk under a row of arches structured from lavender towards one bench stationed at the end of a stretch of grass. This section of the garden has no practical function—nothing edible grows, no animals feed. But it is what I imagine Eden to look like: it bursts with life and yet feels unearthly. I have never seen anyone but my grandfather here. When I was younger, I worried that even just by following him into the space I was breaking some unsaid rule. Although there would be room next to him on the bench, I would sit at his feet and try to limit any fidgeting as he smoked.
I spent my childhood in complete adoration of my grandfather’s aloofness paired with his charm and absolute ease with himself. I would do anything he dared me to. I have run circles around dining tables, a candelabra aflame in each of my hands. I have licked the bottom of his boot after a long walk on the Levels after he told me that I would never taste dirt any better. Children are always excited by the prospect of a dare; I expected to grow out of it. But then, at eighteen, I found myself teetering across a rotten plank spanning the width of a swamp. Of course, the wood gave way beneath me, and I was swallowed by the murky water. It was not worth the five British pounds my grandfather forked over, but it was deeply important for me to prove to him that I was spirited and non-precious.
One summer my mother and father left me and my brother with my grandfather and Sandy. I packed a small pink notebook tightly into my suitcase. I spent the entire week trailing behind my grandfather and scribbling down any quotes I thought were worth immortalizing. My notes included, “These plums are as hard as a witch’s tit,” “Aidan, you bastard! You may be winning now but I’m sniffing up your arse,” and, “I hope Sandy is bedridden first so I can do what I like with the garden.” I opened my speech for his 70th birthday with some words of thanks for all my grandfather has taught me, and followed them with a simple string of obscenities I had recorded.
The sun has set now, and I know the rest of my family members have collected in the kitchen. I walk back towards the house, but stop once more when I come upon the pond. Fish flicker beneath the surface of the dark water, darting between lily pads. My grandfather once drove us to the pet store and let Aidan and me each pick out a goldfish of our own. They are long dead, but whenever I come back, I pick the biggest fish I can spot and pretend it is mine, grown large and not old.
Before now, it had been two years since I had been here. My grandfather and I had only communicated through pixelated Zoom windows. I realize I am reluctant to go into the house and see him again. Our interaction in the driveway was brief enough to preserve the illusion that he is unchanged from the moment I left him last. But I’m worried that now I will notice him walking more slowly than before, or pausing in the middle of speech to regrasp his train of thought.
I know that one day I will have to return and walk around the garden without the promise of him waiting for me inside. Somerset’s rain will keep the grass green and lush, but eventually there will be no lilac arches, no blueberry vines, no rose bushes. A curtain of algae will pull across the pond. The croquet lawn will grow long. This Eden will become a wilder place, governed by nature rather than my grandfather’s hand. At this thought, I am pitched forward, pulled toward the house.
I open the door still swaddled in a haze of superimposed memories. I stand in front of a cutting board to the right of my grandfather. He sits at the head of the table, his ashtray, Philip Roth novel, and glass of red wine displayed in front of him. The kitchen is warmly lit and cluttered with Sandy’s terracotta plateware and carved wooden spoons. On the counters, stacks of cookbooks, magazines, and newspapers lean precariously, threatening to cascade into the stewpot on the stove.
As I cube potatoes, my grandfather tells me that having malaria was the best experience of his life. His story is both alive with detail and doused in an absurd tone of nonchalance. I soak it up, thrilled not only that his mind is still so sharp, but also delighted by his dry, quintessentially British tone. He tells me that he highly recommends I contract the disease, as lots of pretty nurses will attend to me in bed. My father rolls his eyes and reminds the group that he, as a child, was brought to my grandfather’s bedside for his Last Rites, and it was not, in fact, a resort-like experience. My grandfather waves him off, and I am happy to do the same.
Tomorrow at dinner he will repeat the story. I will pause my sawing at the lump of lamb on my plate and look at my mother across the table. She’ll tilt her head and shrug almost imperceptibly. When my grandfather stops speaking, I’ll laugh longer and louder than last time. Satisfied, he will pick up his cigarette, and I will mourn the beginning of an inevitable loss.
My father veers into a long, hedge-lined driveway, and the house emerges from the greenery. The Manor House is a remnant of the feudal village Barton St. David once was. My grandfather likes to tease his wife, Sandy, that she only pretends to be embarrassed by the grandeur of the title, but that she secretly enjoys feeling superior to her neighbors.
When we get out of the car, my grandfather is waiting for us. His hand dangles a cigarette, trailing a coil of smoke. His shirt has a few more holes than the last time I saw him; his pants hang looser. He smiles and his face creases into a familiar origami. The socket around his glass eye droops as I press my face into his shoulder.
Sandy emerges from within the house, and I hug her, too. My father starts unloading the car, after his own tempered embrace with his father and a two-cheek kiss with Sandy. My brother wrestles with a suitcase bigger than himself. My mother heads for the kitchen to help with dinner. I will follow suit soon, but at the moment I am drifting away, tugged towards the grounds of the garden.
I step off the gravel of the driveway and onto my grandfather’s croquet lawn, the short blades of grass prim in their uniformity. I have found him lying on his stomach here, face centimeters from the dirt, trimming the lawn with small scissors. Having a well manicured croquet lawn is a reflection of self-respect and dignity, I was told. But I do not spend too long here—this is my brother’s domain. I will wake each morning to hear the click of croquet balls knocking against one another as he practices to beat my grandfather.
I inspect the vegetable beds, survey the squash, potatoes, and beans. It’s miraculous that my grandparents can summon things from the earth that will end up on my plate, slick with butter and studded with herbs. When I was younger, I thought it was only natural that Somerset’s fertile soil should offer us these treats. Only now do I see the phantom forms of my grandparents on their knees, packing soil over seeds and standing in the sun with a hose.
I walk into the field beyond the beds. To my disappointment, it is empty. My grandparents used to lease the land to a farmer who grazed his sheep there. I would tear through the tall grass and lunge at the sheep arms outstretched, my heavy boots thudding with every bound.
On one occasion, I chased the flock down the side of the field. But one lamb, pressed against the fence, didn’t run. I was confused—that was against the rules! It was no fun to chase if they were going to surrender. Chest heaving and arms swinging, I marched up to the creature. It trembled and strained, but didn’t leave the fence. Horrified, I realized its ear had snagged on a wayward wire and ran to find my grandfather. He sauntered over and I tried to match his pace, swallowing my own panic.
When we reached the lamb, my grandfather took two steps back and told me that he didn’t know why I bothered calling him over—all I had to do was unhook the ear. I looked up at him, nauseous at the thought, and shook my head. My grandfather didn’t say anything. He just crossed his arms and watched the trapped animal.
We held the tableau for a moment before I forced myself to reach out toward the lamb. It bleated and shuffled but could not escape. With both hands and gritted teeth, I gripped the ear and slid it back over the wire. Its skin screeched against the metal, but as soon as it was free, the lamb tore off to rejoin its mother. Breathless and proud, I turned toward my grandfather, and he nodded before heading back to the house.
There is a schism in the garden. Sandy has jurisdiction over the greenhouse and vegetable beds, and my grandfather has reign over the floral areas. I walk under a row of arches structured from lavender towards one bench stationed at the end of a stretch of grass. This section of the garden has no practical function—nothing edible grows, no animals feed. But it is what I imagine Eden to look like: it bursts with life and yet feels unearthly. I have never seen anyone but my grandfather here. When I was younger, I worried that even just by following him into the space I was breaking some unsaid rule. Although there would be room next to him on the bench, I would sit at his feet and try to limit any fidgeting as he smoked.
I spent my childhood in complete adoration of my grandfather’s aloofness paired with his charm and absolute ease with himself. I would do anything he dared me to. I have run circles around dining tables, a candelabra aflame in each of my hands. I have licked the bottom of his boot after a long walk on the Levels after he told me that I would never taste dirt any better. Children are always excited by the prospect of a dare; I expected to grow out of it. But then, at eighteen, I found myself teetering across a rotten plank spanning the width of a swamp. Of course, the wood gave way beneath me, and I was swallowed by the murky water. It was not worth the five British pounds my grandfather forked over, but it was deeply important for me to prove to him that I was spirited and non-precious.
One summer my mother and father left me and my brother with my grandfather and Sandy. I packed a small pink notebook tightly into my suitcase. I spent the entire week trailing behind my grandfather and scribbling down any quotes I thought were worth immortalizing. My notes included, “These plums are as hard as a witch’s tit,” “Aidan, you bastard! You may be winning now but I’m sniffing up your arse,” and, “I hope Sandy is bedridden first so I can do what I like with the garden.” I opened my speech for his 70th birthday with some words of thanks for all my grandfather has taught me, and followed them with a simple string of obscenities I had recorded.
The sun has set now, and I know the rest of my family members have collected in the kitchen. I walk back towards the house, but stop once more when I come upon the pond. Fish flicker beneath the surface of the dark water, darting between lily pads. My grandfather once drove us to the pet store and let Aidan and me each pick out a goldfish of our own. They are long dead, but whenever I come back, I pick the biggest fish I can spot and pretend it is mine, grown large and not old.
Before now, it had been two years since I had been here. My grandfather and I had only communicated through pixelated Zoom windows. I realize I am reluctant to go into the house and see him again. Our interaction in the driveway was brief enough to preserve the illusion that he is unchanged from the moment I left him last. But I’m worried that now I will notice him walking more slowly than before, or pausing in the middle of speech to regrasp his train of thought.
I know that one day I will have to return and walk around the garden without the promise of him waiting for me inside. Somerset’s rain will keep the grass green and lush, but eventually there will be no lilac arches, no blueberry vines, no rose bushes. A curtain of algae will pull across the pond. The croquet lawn will grow long. This Eden will become a wilder place, governed by nature rather than my grandfather’s hand. At this thought, I am pitched forward, pulled toward the house.
I open the door still swaddled in a haze of superimposed memories. I stand in front of a cutting board to the right of my grandfather. He sits at the head of the table, his ashtray, Philip Roth novel, and glass of red wine displayed in front of him. The kitchen is warmly lit and cluttered with Sandy’s terracotta plateware and carved wooden spoons. On the counters, stacks of cookbooks, magazines, and newspapers lean precariously, threatening to cascade into the stewpot on the stove.
As I cube potatoes, my grandfather tells me that having malaria was the best experience of his life. His story is both alive with detail and doused in an absurd tone of nonchalance. I soak it up, thrilled not only that his mind is still so sharp, but also delighted by his dry, quintessentially British tone. He tells me that he highly recommends I contract the disease, as lots of pretty nurses will attend to me in bed. My father rolls his eyes and reminds the group that he, as a child, was brought to my grandfather’s bedside for his Last Rites, and it was not, in fact, a resort-like experience. My grandfather waves him off, and I am happy to do the same.
Tomorrow at dinner he will repeat the story. I will pause my sawing at the lump of lamb on my plate and look at my mother across the table. She’ll tilt her head and shrug almost imperceptibly. When my grandfather stops speaking, I’ll laugh longer and louder than last time. Satisfied, he will pick up his cigarette, and I will mourn the beginning of an inevitable loss.
