(Picture: Lake of the Moon, India)
It is a late summer evening and I'm checking over my
back garden. Warm and muggy. Can hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Ah! A
flash of sheet lightning. Not too surprising in this heavy, stormy air.
What’s this? A little girl is looking for something
in my
garden! Odd – her dress reminds me of the fifties or sixties.
Me: “Can I help you?”
Girl: “Don’t think so. Just seeing if anyone’s
dropped anything valuable, like I always do.”
Me: “Always?”
Girl: “Yeh, every night. What do you want?”
Me: “I’ve never seen you here before. Don’t you know
its trespassing to go into people’s gardens?”
Girl: “What gardens? Anyone can see this is a clay
pit!”
Clay pit! That hits a chord. My house was built on a
clay pit they say, in the 1970s. But now no-one would know this just by looking
at the estate.
Me: “Don’t be daft, it hasn’t been a clay pit for
years! What are you on?”
Girl: “Me? You’re the one seeing gardens!”
Suddenly another girl and boy appear. They must have
walked through the fence! No. That doesn’t make sense. They must have been
hiding behind my shrubs.
Girl (to boy): “Hey John, this bloke thinks this is
a bloody garden.”
John: “Allison, stop swearing! Heh? That’s bonkers.
(To me) What do you want mister? ”
Me: “I just want you lot out of my garden.”
They shake their heads and look at one another,
clearly puzzled.
John: “So you can’t see this clay pit? This junk?
That old machinery?”
Me: “No. Of course not. This is my garden.”
Allison steps towards me. She reaches up to stroke
my arm in sympathy, and her hand goes straight through me! I just feel
something like a cold breeze as her hand passes through. Yes, through. I
haven’t imagined it.
John: “Get away from him, Allison, he’s a bloody
ghost!”
Me: “Whoah. Oh my God! That’s damn scary. Honest, I
aint no ghost. Look, my house was built on the clay-pit, in the 1970s...”
John: “But that’s the ****ing future!”
Me: “Eh? What year is it? For you?”
John: “1965.”
Me: “Well it’s 2012 for me. Sorry, but you three
must be the ghosts.”
John: “Come on you two. This is too weird. Let’s go
home. (To me) No offence mister, but this is too much. Nice to meet you and all
that. But I don’t do ghosts, sorry.”
They all turn and run through the fence.
Presently I turn to return to the house.
Dad! But he’s long dead!
Dad: “Come on now, Paul, it’s time to go.”
Another man appears.
Man: “Hello Paul. I’m Simon, your spirit guide. Good
to meet you at last.”
Me: “What the HELL’s going on?”
I’m in that clay pit! My house and garden are gone!
Don’t panic Paul! There is junk and rubble and God knows what all around.
Simon: “Don’t worry Paul. This often happens with
souls who are moving on. We are indeed standing in 1965. Those children you saw
are still alive and well as I speak. I’m afraid you are the ghost.”
Me: “But it’s 2012!”
Simon: “Now you know it’s not. That’s years ago for
us. Happy times, with the Olympics and so forth, that you've latched onto.”
We are back in the garden now. But it has changed
beyond recognition.
Simon: “And now we are back in your present. Your real
present. It is time to move on Paul.”
Simon points – towards a bright white light moving
closer and closer. We walk towards it...
Paul
Butters
(C) 14\8\2012
