A Morning Talk

Poor George. He loved sitting out here like this, soaking up the warmth. It was always great – old George and me, side by side. A couple of old fogies together, just sitting here. And enjoying. At times, he’d turn and look at me – as if to say: ‘It’s a beaut morning, eh mate?’ And I’d just look back at him; straight into his bright old eyes. No need to say a word. Not to old George. He just knew. It was like that between us – old George and me. We thought alike. And we both loved to be outdoors.

See those daisies there, just off the edge of the pavers? The purply pinkish ones? George absolutely loved those daisies. If the sun catches them just right – so they’re backlit – then, with that juniper covering the ground behind them, they can shine like they’re jewels, nested in green velvet. George would stare and stare at them, for ages.

Sometimes I’d wonder what he was seeing, what went through old George’s head. He’d stare at those daisies, and get a sort of blissful expression on his dopey face. It was like he’d floated off into some heavenly place; like those daisies were some sort of portal to a magic world that he’d go off to for a while. He’d just sit there grinning – silly old duffer. Until some pesky insect came buzzing at him and snapped him out of it. Then he’d snort, and get up and shuffle around for a bit, before settling down again.

Yes, those were good mornings. He was a great mate, old George. Just what suited me; especially these past few years. Both of us too doddery to go anywhere much anymore. Sally said poor George was senile. So that made a pair of us. She said he’d become too stupid to know where he was. She’d complain that he’d get ‘under her feet’ in the kitchen. But he just wanted a drink of water, poor chap. When he went missing one morning last year, Sally said he’d probably gone off down the street thinking he was going for the paper – like we used to of a morning – and got lost, or picked up by someone. Nobody saw him go. None of the neighbours, or anyone in the streets around here. I insisted that Sal ring the police, of course; but no one ever saw him again. Not that we heard of, anyway. He never came back.

Poor old George. Whatever did happen, I hope he didn’t suffer. I sure do miss him. He was restful. Not like Sally in there, always busy at something. She’ll be out in a minute, with the coffee and cake. Which’ll be good. Can’t you just smell it? Coffee and baking – and mock orange from the hedge. All mixed up together; and smeared on the air like some sort of icing. Passionfruit, too. Sally said she was going to ice the cake with some of those. There’s so many of them this year. Over there, on that vine – all along the whole darned fence, this year. Big yellow fruits. Yes, yellow ones. With lots of juicy pulp inside. Sally says I shouldn’t be using a sharp knife, in my condition, but I like to cut one of those pashies open and have it on top of some fruit and yogurt for breakfast. She’s filled dozens of little pots with pulp already this year, and put them in the freezer, so’s I can just defrost one overnight and use that when the fresh ones are all gone.

She’s good to her old dad, is Sally. I’d probably have to go into one of those nursing homes, if she didn’t come most mornings and set me up for a few days, cooking up some tasty meals; so all I have to do is stick them in the microwave to heat them up. She says I wouldn’t eat at all, otherwise. And she’s probably right. I’ve been spoiled, you see. Her mother was a great cook and Sal’s even better. She’d beat them all, hands down, if she went on one of those TV cooking shows.

There’s nothing much else on TV these days, is there? Every time you turn the TV on, it’s another cooking show, with some chef or other; or wannabe chefs competing to make the most ridiculous stuff. What’s the use of that to the likes of us? All that fiddling around with a little bit of this and a little bit of that; stuff you’d never use twice, so it’d sit in the pantry for months and go to waste. Sure it looks terrific, and may taste good too. But Sal can cook up a scrumptious meal every time. And she only needs a few ingredients bought at the local supermarket, and plenty of fresh fruit and veg. And lots of that she grows in the garden here, so it’s really fresh and tasty.

She’s got green fingers, our Sally. She loves gardening, just like her mother did. I can’t do any of that, these days. But Sal says it gives her a good excuse to get out of that apartment she and Ron live in. She says she feels boxed in, up there, even though it’s big and spacious. But she likes the feel of the ground under her feet and the sun on her skin; and the trees and plants, and birds and insects all around. Even as a little nipper, she’d be out there with her mother, pulling up carrots or helping to weed around the roses. I was always scared she’d take an eye out on those rose thorns; but no, not little Sally. A scratch or two and she learned, pretty fast, to be careful where she put her little fingers, and to keep her head clear.

She’s always been a bit of a wizard in the garden. These days she’s into eco-gardening. She learned about some Japanese fellow who mixes the vegetables up among the flowers and trees. She says that helps deal with the insects, so she doesn’t need to spray. She won’t use fertilisers, either, except a little blood and bone, or seaweed. Says it’s not natural, all these chemicals; and we don’t really know what they’re doing to us, let alone killing off some of the wildlife. She may be right about that, because there’s more frogs on the kitchen window these nights than I’ve seen for years and years. When George was a puppy – and that’s a good sixteen years ago – they’d sometimes make him jump, landing all of a sudden, like they would, on the sliding door from this patio. These days, all you see is those dratted foreign geckoes, hoping for a moth or two. And getting inside and running all over, hiding behind the bookcases, and in the air conditioner. Their droppings everywhere drive Sal nuts.

She mostly uses scraps from the kitchen, now, to feed the plants. Composts most of it, but sometimes she just buries stuff straight in the garden. She says it was all grass or vegetable matter originally, even the meat, so why shouldn’t it go back into the soil like it would out in the wild. I wonder what she fed to the passionfruit last year to make it grow and have such a bumper crop.

Ah, here she is now. And that cake really does look great. Have a slice. You’ve done us proud again, Sal. And we’ve been admiring the passionfruit vine. Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?