The story of Emma - Part Two

The story of Emma (Two) - A short story by Bruno Bernard


Summer was a bundle of energy. Every afternoon I just could not wait to bolt out of the front door and head up the hill towards the churchyard in the late afternoon. I was tired of being cooped up inside the house without a fiend to play with that August. As soon as Mummy had gathered her things and her basket I was impatiently waiting by the front door. Fortunately, Mummy was not inclined to restrain me as she casually strolled up the lane behind me, doubtless listening to the birds singing in the trees and taking in the riot of color that surrounded our journey up the hill. As I was wearing shorts I was always getting my knees scratched by thorns as I waded into the bushes on the side when I spied some ripe berries. Mummy wore a black floral dress with tiny pink and white roses. She loved roses, especially pink, which complemented her own long strawberry blond hair. She certainly had the patience of a saint as her little prince tumbled up and down the country lane in search of an adventure at every turn.

Mummy was seated under her favorite oak tree. She didn’t like getting sunburn so she preferred to sit under the shady tree sipping lemonade and reading her books while I could roam about and play by myself. It seemed strange that one could find such comfort but the disused country graveyard, now over-run by foliage, was indeed a peaceful place to find happiness in solitude. I knew Mummy loved pink roses so I would set off in search of the wild dog-roses that scrambled their way across the odd mossy tombstone. There was only one week left before the school would open. It was late August and I sought to enjoy my afternoon freedom as much as I could.

I cannot count how many times I could have tripped over a broken gravestone hidden under some tufts of wild grass. Bruised and scratched I still found excitement exploring behind every gnarled tree and broken stone. The afternoon was progressing. I had found a suitably shaped piece of wood that I had rather imagined become my sturdy sword. I could not help myself plunging my wooden implement into the odd tree now and then as I pursued my adventure and scoured the churchyard for flowers for Mummy.

Was it a flash of red or fleeting blue that caught the corner of my eye as I stood beside a green tower of ivy weaving a tapestry across a large and forgotten mausoleum? it was my friend Emma. I turned my head across my shoulder and peered closer at the yew tree behind the mausoleum. Once again I saw a flitting red of a shadow and instantly recognized it must be Emma again, the little girl with long wavy red hair, a huge smile and a hundred freckles under her gleaming eyes. I determined to approach the yew tree. Ahead of me through the razor screen of a weeping willow I saw a sudden flash of blue and red. I called for Emma but there was no response. There was the occasional grasshopper singing and a few calls of a pigeon to break the enveloping silence. I could feel a gentle wind wafting through the bushes and freshly caressing my puzzled face. I walked slowly ahead past the yew tree and the mausoleum into the willow. It has been a dry summer and parched leaves were already starting to fall early. I could feel the dry, brittle leaves crumple beneath my feet as I waded into the middle of the willow tree. The silence was becoming more pronounced save for a few rustling leaves in the wind. Through the willow tree I could see an open area in front of me. It was a sunken garden rectangular in shape. I had never discovered this secluded area in the churchyard before. Slowly I trod five steps down. The stone and cement were breaking and so I had to tread carefully. This must have been a little garden because I could detect the remains of a two wooden benches now entirely covered in moss on either side of what would have been a rectangular pond. The silence was growing as I stood in the middle of the sunken garden. What were a few ornamental rose bushes by the side of the garden walls were now completely gnarled and strangled within knots by rampant ivy sweeping across most of the garden side wall. The soil under the old rose bushes was an unhealthy sallow yellow. Even the air felt thick and sickly. I tightened my nostrils. The air smelt earthy, stagnant and old and the silence was becoming more and more oppressive. I could no longer hear the birds in the trees. There was something abut the garden that made me feel uncomfortable. No sound could penetrate the woody wall that enveloped the secret garden. The loneliness gnawed inside my soul. I was utterly alone. It was very apparent that nobody had trodden through the garden for years. I trod carefully, almost gingerly, to the other side of the sunken garden and climbed the stony steps. Once again out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a flash of red and blue and I called out for Emma. My words seemed to have died in the air like a muffled sound as the silence of the garden quickly engulfed me. Nervously, peering into the dark green thicket ahead I could make out the gates of an old family mausoleum where little sunlight could breech the arching trees that covered the entire area around the family tomb. The stony grey was thickly covered by moss and gradually being strangled to death by a creeping green ivy. I stopped in my tracks and for the first time a sense of fear was beginning to grow in my mind. i hesitated for almost an eternity as my senses listened out keenly for any stir or sight of Emma. I was reluctant to take one more step closer. The silence in the air was fast becoming a deafening foreboding. The sunken garden was now within a deeper hush of quiet. I was quickly becoming uneasy. The sickly, earthy smell was over-powering. But through the loneliness I could feel that I was being watched from across the garden. I knew I was not alone but I was not sure if it was my friend Emma playing a game of hide and seek with me. I didn't want to linger here anymore. The air smelt terribly old and dead. The whole secret garden seemed like nature caught in a dreadful state of decay. This was not a garden anymore than death was a state of relaxation. It's grace and beauty had faded over time. Even the roses had died and almost appeared swallowed up by the rank yellow earth. The churchyard was no longer a welcome place. I turned and quickly made my way across the sunken garden but kept looking behind me at the old tomb which was receding into the leafy background. I still could not help but feel that I was being watched by someone. My palpitating chest heightened a sense of foreboding and urgency. It was only once I found the yew tree again that I found the courage to stop looking behind me and break into a run through the familiar paths back to the oak tree where Mummy was resting. When I caught sight of her only then I slowed down into a walk.

Mummy was asleep. I sat down beside her and then put my head on her lap and stared across the land below the hill. She stirred after a moment and gently felt my hair with her hands. I felt lovingly safe again in her lap as I sighed at her slightest touch. Mummy was waking from her dreams. She rarely spoke, she was always quiet, but with the wave of her hand or a twitch of her eyebrows I always knew what Mummy wanted and we went about our lives in quiet recognition. Mummy knew I wanted to go home as I clung to her dress tightly. I went in search of Emma but I didn’t want to go back there to the yew tree again. The warm afternoon sun was gently setting across the hills in the distance with a ruddy glow across the land. It was seven in the evening now as Mummy gently eased me up and motioned me to grab our things.

I missed Emma terribly the last few days. I didn’t have anyone to play with that summer. But I did not think I would find her again and I was not too keen to venture to the sunken garden ever again.