Gran

Four years old he stood ramrod straight and took a breath he hoped would stop the tears. His lips quivered and his mouth turned so far down as mum drove away his gran couldn’t help but think of waifs pining in impressionist, cobbled streets.

The last of the sun ran in shards through the poplars marking the end of the driveway. The winter trees spindly and pale so that the car’s tail lights burst across the fields towards them as it paused at the gate, turned to the quiet road, and disappeared.

The distant hills wore colours that made her draw her cardigan close; she looked down to him, his eyes still upon the road.

Stepping down off the porch she thought to bring in the plates and cups of afternoon tea from the table beneath the magnolia sheltering the front lawn.

He had followed her silently, and as she lifted the tablecloth she watched him clamber up to one of the tall chairs. His mum had written phone numbers down, and he took up the pen she had used and cradled it in his hand.

Petals covered the lawn, browning at the edges, still cupping the last of the slow morning rain. Another floated down to the table before him now, and he looked up to the branches above, to the steel sky beyond. He turned the petal slowly between two fingers; bent to the paper, began. Gran folded the tablecloth without taking her eyes from him and turned quietly to head inside.

He moved his arm slightly as she leaned down and placed a packet of colouring pencils next to him, so that she saw nothing but a trace of red and grey across the top of the page. She opened the gate out to the home paddock and he listened to the gentle scuff of her boots as she moved away, hunting out a few pine cones amongst the long grass. She came back cradling them in her fold of her cardigan.

The very last of the sun picked out solitary cattle standing sentinel on the hills, making jet black cut outs of their rounded shapes.

“Shall we go inside”, she said? “I think it’s time to light the fire.”

She ran a bath for him and made sure that his pyjamas were ready. Once the pine cones caught and threw flashes of light across the ceiling she headed towards the kitchen.

Returning soon to throw on another handful of cones she found his pages placed neatly on her chair; where she had drawn it before the fire along with one for him. The topmost page resplendent in all the colours that had held her eye as she closed the front door when they came inside.

The sun was a stripe crawling across the dark peaks, the looming sky swallowing it in pinks and greys. Beneath the hills a house, windows glowing yellow, a column of white smoke from the tall chimney, she could feel the warmth.

They met at the dining table and he clambered up to the tall chair.

“Thank you Grandma.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Afterwards she took away the plates and they went through to the warmth. He stood as she built up the fire and the pine cones roared and popped again.

He took his seat as she did hers. Looking up to the mantelpiece he saw his picture in a simple white frame, catching the colours of the fire.

He could feel the warmth.