Mrs. Harrison.

Mrs. Harrison was a childless World War II widow. I didn't know her first name. When we became neighbours in a small town called Hexham she was already a grand old lady well into her seventies. Her face was wrinkled and she had a canopy of silver grey hair. She mostly wore a tweed dress, a hat and held a vanity bag when she ventured out of the house just like all other ladies at that time. Her hands were bony and the veins stood out under the pale dry skin. She never once did mind when I played with her strangely behaving skin on her hands pulling it up and making it stand in place or stretching it to examine the veins more closely. I never got tired of this curious activity. I guess she was as amused by me as I was by her wrinkled hands.

She lived all by herself in a dainty house and she tended to her garden all by herself despite her stiff joints. Her garden was simple, pretty and neat with a patch of verdant lawn edged by rows of colourful flowers; roses, tulips daffodils, poppies and magnolias. She grew all that in her neat little garden.

With no siblings at that time I had to amuse myself with whatever I had at my disposal, like Mrs. Harrison’s garden, besides the dolls and toys.  I was only six years old then and wasn't even aware that someone lived next door and that the garden belonged to them.  For a week cartwheeling, stumbling, rolling and skipping on the lawn continued unhindered whilst unbeknownst to me Mrs. Harrison watched from her upstairs window, as she told me later on. Perhaps it would have taken longer for her to enter on the scene if not for the skipping rope handle which I accidentally hurled on her window pane almost shattering it to pieces. That was when I saw her for the first time.  

We became gardener buddies. She showed me how to mow the lawn and trim the edges of the lawn. She mowed the lawn while trimming the edges became my ritual.  I watched in awe as she ran the lawn mower in overlapping lines over the lawn and took in the aroma of the freshly cut lawn.  Then both of us would search for weeds and pull them out.

One day we were both in the garden shed retrieving our gardening tools for another gardening session and I happened to knock her down accidentally. She caught her leg in a bucket and went down on all fours. Being the child I was I didn’t realize the impact it had on her, given her age, till she showed my mother the bruises the next day. I was horrified and felt a good measure of shame too for not apologizing immediately. I was excused anyway since she held no grudge on her little friend and gardening partner. The lesson was well learnt but poor Mrs. Harrison “took the fall”.

During holidays most times would be spent sitting by the front window watching traffic as it would either be too cold to venture out or my parents would be busy with extra duties. Mrs.  Harrison would occasionally take me out to the playground. Those trips were exhilarating and lifted my spirits from the tedium. Though the wind blew cold over my face till I could feel my nose no more it was the best time I could have. She would pack sandwiches and we would walk to the local pastry shop where she would buy raisin bread and butter. On our way back we would stop near a park and eat our sandwiches on a park bench. On one such trip I munched on my delicious cucumber and lettuce sandwich and curiously watched a couple of teenagers fooling around on the lawn and tried to make sense out of it.

She also baked biscuits and called them rock biscuits perhaps because they had no regular shape but tasted heavenly. The exclusivity lied in the fact that she baked them for me. She told me stories of birds and fairies and kept an eye on me till my parents returned late from work. I grew so fond of her that I would seldom miss the opportunity to sneak out of the house after supper to be with her. She happily let me in and I would watch her intently go about doing her regular chores.

She had bought me a double string of exquisite pearls as a parting gift. The day of departure neared and she took my mother aside one day and asked if she could adopt me. She assured my mother that I would be looked after well and she would even mention me in her Will. This took my mother by surprise and she politely declined. Many years later I learnt about this exchange and wished that my mother had left me behind then.

Wherever she is now I know the sweet soul is happy. I wish that someday I could lay a flower on her grave and thank her in silence for some of the best memories of my childhood.

Dear old Mrs. Harrison.