In The Garden Of Stones by Lucy Pepperdine Page B

rests her cheek against the now
distorted cushion and closes her eyes.
    “ Talk to me, Grace,” says Mal. “Tell me what’s going through
your mind.”
    “ Do you think imagination can be so powerful as to create a place where I can
feel every blade of grass under my feet, where I can smell the
flowers and the smoke from the bonfire, where I can hear every bee
and taste the juice from the blackberries I pulled from the
bramble,” she says, after a pause.
    Mal
nods. “Yes I do. If it weren’t, how would a blind person imagine
what colours are, or a deaf person appreciate music?”
    “ What about an imaginary man grabbing my arm and causing
actual bruises?”
    “ Ah, now, that’s still open to debate–”
    “ Or being stabbed by a splinter of wood, or this–?” She
pushes the sleeve of her sweatshirt up her arm to reveal a patch of
raised watery bumps surrounded by reddened skin. “You can see this
can’t you, or am I still imagining it?”
    Mal
leans closer to look at the rash. “Yes, I can see it. What is
it?”
    “ Nettle rash. Pinching make believe blackberries in a make
believe garden is not without its hazards. Make believe nettles
sting just as hard as real ones.” She scratches at the angry area.
“Itches like hell. Must put some calamine lotion on it. So what do
you think?”
    Mal’s
face once more takes on that unreadable mask that tells her she’s
presented him with something he wasn’t expecting, doesn’t
understand, and doesn’t know how to react.
    At least
he isn’t laughing at her, far from it, and she can’t decide whether
that’s a good sign or not.

Chapter 15
     
     
    There is
no sign of Colin in the garden or in the cemetery. Noiselessly
Grace approaches the hut, and through the window sees movement
inside.
    He is in
there, straightening out the rough khaki coloured blanket on his
cot, pulling it as tight as a drum, tucking in the corners in pin
sharp folds in the military style she only believed happened in
movies.
    All his own work, or an unconscious representation of my own
compulsive need to tidy?
    When he
is done he stands back to admire his handiwork. The door of the hut
is ajar and she knocks gently on it, pushing it open a touch.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
    Colin
turns to see her, his expression registering at first surprise,
then recognition, then relief.
    “ Grace?”
    “ Were you expecting someone else?
    “ No.”
    “ Can I come in?”
    “ If ye like.”
    She
steps inside the gloomy hut. It smells of grass and soil and engine
oil. “You okay?” she says.
    “ Aye.”
    He
maintains a distance between them, keeping her at more than arm’s
reach, shifting from foot to foot. He sniffs and clears his throat.
“I was hoping ye’d come back. I wanted ta apologise fer bein’ sa
rude … again.”
    She
shrugs. “S’okay.”
    “ No, it’s not. It’s very much not okay.”
    He
pushes past her to go outside. Grace follows.
    “ Ye were right,” he says. “None of this is real. Not a
damned thing. It’s all an illusion. I’m no in therapy. I did this
by mysel’. I made this place for me, inside ma ain heid because I
needed somewhere to go, to get away from everything and everybody,
and it was working fine, I was happy here in ma ain
company–”
    “ Until I turned up and spoiled it.”
    “ Aye … no … ach, I don’t know.”
    He
lashes out at the dead leaves with his foot. Unbalanced, he
staggers, flinging his arms out.
    Grace
grabs him before he can fall. “Whoa, careful! You okay?”
    He
closes his eyes, drawing in a few deep breaths. “Aye. Fine. Knocked
masel’ off kilter there a wee bit.” He gazes off into the
shrubbery. “D’ye like strawberries?” he says, presently.
    Grace
smiles. “I love strawberries.”
    “ Good. Grab that trug over there and come wi me.”
    She
takes a long shallow basket from a nail at the hut’s door, and
follows Colin into the undergrowth to a patch of wild strawberries.
Soon the trug is loaded with fresh red