One very hot September day about eight years ago my husband, Mike, and I were walking by the Serpentine in Hyde Park . The wildfowl as ever, fascinated me. A crane, wading at the water's edge, flew a short distance on, as we approached, making a strange, loud call, a most impressive sound and one I hadn't heard previously. We stood still, admiring the bird, its long neck and long legs giving it grace and elegance. It is a bird I have rarely come across, so I stood and watched it, admiring its soft grey plumage.
Two swans sailed serenely along, their feathers puffed out so that they resembled ornamental boats gliding across a stage in a production ofSwan Lake Kensington Gardens
The companion sailed on alone for some time, appearing oblivious to all that was happening around it, but eventually it, too, took to the air, and followed the same flight path. The whole scene was peaceful and relaxing, in spite of the stifling heat, unusual for that time of year. I felt happy and content and in tune with my surroundings, walking with slow, measured steps to match the movements of the crane and swans. My normal fevered life had slowed down to a tranquil pace.
As we progressed, the crane was maintaining the same distance between him and us. We could hear another rasping noise in the distance and we wondered what strange water bird we would find further on.
We soon identified the sound of a chainsaw at work. A lumberjack in harness and helmet was up in a weeping willow by the restaurant at the water's edge. He was cutting the upper branches. A companion on the ground was using another chainsaw to make the branches smaller before feeding them into a shredder. A discordant note had crept in to the peaceful atmosphere.
As we stood and watched, I found myself wanting to weep. Soon, my thoughts turned to death. That tree looked green and healthy, unlike the parched brown earth surrounding us. Not a single blade of green grass had survived the long weeks of heat wave, yet the tree was being deliberately cut down. I wondered why. Was it being sacrificed to make room for some addition to the restaurant?
One minute, the branches were alive and part of the trunk. Then they were being severed, one by one, and fed into a machine from which they emerged as dust. “Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.”
I had read on a plaque that the Serpentine was created for Queen Charlotte. I pictured her walking there to gain comfort and relief from her unhappy marriage. Was she, as I was, fascinated by the wild fowl? Did she achieve a similar sense of peace and serenity? What discord shattered her brief spell of happiness?
A deep gloom hung over me. It was as if a vague shadow had flitted down from the cloudless blue sky, bringing with it a chill in spite of the relentless heat of the day. I thought of the people known to me who had died young. The first death I remember was that of my paternal grandmother. I was seven years old when she came to stay with us. One night we were taken into the bedroom where she lay as if asleep. We were told to say goodbye to Granny.
"Goodbye, Granny," we chanted obediently.
What was going through our young minds? Was Granny going back to her own home? What left a lasting impression on me was the sight of my father kneeling by the bed, weeping, with his head bent towards his mother. In my childish book fathers didn't cry. It was rather frightening and very puzzling. I recall the atmosphere as being solemn. How or when Granny left the house I can’t remember. Death was a meaningless concept in our young minds.
I was 15 years old when I first came face to face with the finality of death. A newly found friend was struck down with meningitis and he was dead within a week. Just before my 21st birthday my youngest sister was a victim of the same disease. I remember kneeling by my bed and crying buckets of tears over what seemed like many hours. I wept till I became exhausted and then I could weep no more as I settled into a dazed state of severe shock. She was 10 years old, the same age as the two girls murdered in Soham around the time we were visitingLondon
As I stood inHyde Park and watched the sawdust emerging from the shredder, I wondered where it would end up. Why did the sight of the tree surgery have such a dramatic effect on me? We had recently paid a tree surgeon to cut down five trees in our garden and my only reaction was relief that our house was brighter and opened up to the sun.
Memories locked away in my subconscious were rising to the surface, painful memories I didn't want to recall. Old unresolved questions presented themselves afresh to my mind. Why did that young man with everything to live for take his grandfather's shotgun and blow his own brains out? I recalled many similar tragedies. There was the young boy about to leave school and head off to university with so much promise for the future. He died on the road having been knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, a senseless ending of a young life. There was the young woman who fell from a railway bridge and died instantly, full of life one moment and gone the next. These and so many other tragedies, pushed to the back of my memory, were coming to mind that day.
I relived the day my daughter rang to tell me about her accident on Mt Everest and about her friend being swept away to an instant death in an avalanche. It was something I tried not to think about. I wasn't there but I was affected by the horror of the tragedy. "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls."
So many images flashed through my mind in a short space of time. I recalled the sudden deaths of those close to me. I felt the sadness of unfulfilled promises, of failure to achieve reconciliation, of final farewells unspoken. Perhaps, too, I realised that the greater part of my life was behind me, that Death might not be that far off. For some reason the tree was no longer wanted so it was cut down and reduced to sawdust.
Two swans sailed serenely along, their feathers puffed out so that they resembled ornamental boats gliding across a stage in a production of
The companion sailed on alone for some time, appearing oblivious to all that was happening around it, but eventually it, too, took to the air, and followed the same flight path. The whole scene was peaceful and relaxing, in spite of the stifling heat, unusual for that time of year. I felt happy and content and in tune with my surroundings, walking with slow, measured steps to match the movements of the crane and swans. My normal fevered life had slowed down to a tranquil pace.
As we progressed, the crane was maintaining the same distance between him and us. We could hear another rasping noise in the distance and we wondered what strange water bird we would find further on.
We soon identified the sound of a chainsaw at work. A lumberjack in harness and helmet was up in a weeping willow by the restaurant at the water's edge. He was cutting the upper branches. A companion on the ground was using another chainsaw to make the branches smaller before feeding them into a shredder. A discordant note had crept in to the peaceful atmosphere.
As we stood and watched, I found myself wanting to weep. Soon, my thoughts turned to death. That tree looked green and healthy, unlike the parched brown earth surrounding us. Not a single blade of green grass had survived the long weeks of heat wave, yet the tree was being deliberately cut down. I wondered why. Was it being sacrificed to make room for some addition to the restaurant?
One minute, the branches were alive and part of the trunk. Then they were being severed, one by one, and fed into a machine from which they emerged as dust. “Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.”
I had read on a plaque that the Serpentine was created for Queen Charlotte. I pictured her walking there to gain comfort and relief from her unhappy marriage. Was she, as I was, fascinated by the wild fowl? Did she achieve a similar sense of peace and serenity? What discord shattered her brief spell of happiness?
A deep gloom hung over me. It was as if a vague shadow had flitted down from the cloudless blue sky, bringing with it a chill in spite of the relentless heat of the day. I thought of the people known to me who had died young. The first death I remember was that of my paternal grandmother. I was seven years old when she came to stay with us. One night we were taken into the bedroom where she lay as if asleep. We were told to say goodbye to Granny.
"Goodbye, Granny," we chanted obediently.
What was going through our young minds? Was Granny going back to her own home? What left a lasting impression on me was the sight of my father kneeling by the bed, weeping, with his head bent towards his mother. In my childish book fathers didn't cry. It was rather frightening and very puzzling. I recall the atmosphere as being solemn. How or when Granny left the house I can’t remember. Death was a meaningless concept in our young minds.
I was 15 years old when I first came face to face with the finality of death. A newly found friend was struck down with meningitis and he was dead within a week. Just before my 21st birthday my youngest sister was a victim of the same disease. I remember kneeling by my bed and crying buckets of tears over what seemed like many hours. I wept till I became exhausted and then I could weep no more as I settled into a dazed state of severe shock. She was 10 years old, the same age as the two girls murdered in Soham around the time we were visiting
As I stood in
Memories locked away in my subconscious were rising to the surface, painful memories I didn't want to recall. Old unresolved questions presented themselves afresh to my mind. Why did that young man with everything to live for take his grandfather's shotgun and blow his own brains out? I recalled many similar tragedies. There was the young boy about to leave school and head off to university with so much promise for the future. He died on the road having been knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, a senseless ending of a young life. There was the young woman who fell from a railway bridge and died instantly, full of life one moment and gone the next. These and so many other tragedies, pushed to the back of my memory, were coming to mind that day.
I relived the day my daughter rang to tell me about her accident on Mt Everest and about her friend being swept away to an instant death in an avalanche. It was something I tried not to think about. I wasn't there but I was affected by the horror of the tragedy. "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls."
So many images flashed through my mind in a short space of time. I recalled the sudden deaths of those close to me. I felt the sadness of unfulfilled promises, of failure to achieve reconciliation, of final farewells unspoken. Perhaps, too, I realised that the greater part of my life was behind me, that Death might not be that far off. For some reason the tree was no longer wanted so it was cut down and reduced to sawdust.
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