AN ODE TO RUBEN DUDLEY

His hands were strong and rough from work and his shed was dark but full of mystery and intrigue. Papa never had much time for children but I was in awe of him, the amazing things he knew, the gruffness that he spoke to us with and his harsh words when we were caught in the bowels of his work room only served to deepen my interest and love for the old man.

Wanting him to be proud of me and pick me out as one of his favourite grandchildren I would always jump at the chance to go walking along the sand dunes by the beach with him and his dog of many names – Gus, Buggerlugs, Boy and Dud just to name a few. But he answered to all. Wandering along the peaks of the windswept dunes and looking down at the crashing waves I felt free and loved – in good capable hands with my Papa.

As I grew older my respect and love for him only grew. Determined never to need help or give in to his age he dug out his own indoor, back yard swimming pool at the age of 83, rigged up an old wood heater to the water circulation so it was warm enough for his beloved wife and built a shed around it with en-suite bathroom inside, scoffing at his sons when they advised getting a small digger in, or workmen to do it for him. His response was the same a few years later when the boiler in his ceiling broke and needed to be replaced.

One question he never seemed to like answering, and that I never liked to ask, was his age. My own father could answer those sorts of mundane everyday queries. Papa was for asking how things worked – could you make a motor bike out of a bicycle? Or a pottery wheel out of a washing machine? Or for laughing with at ‘the old boys’ as they tried to cross the road in front of his house, or the teenage girls that ran along with no bras making milkshakes. His wheezing cough of a laugh and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he made those comments still resonate in my mind.

One day quite suddenly, just as I was starting to think he’d live far past 100, he lost his marbles – to use his words. Forgot what he was doing, why he was doing it and almost who he was. But his spirit remained; he knew where he wanted to go. So when I made the journey to the home where he was placed he asked me as I walked through the door ‘Have you come to get me for the final round up?’ He didn’t know I was his granddaughter any more and he didn’t really care, because “when you live you live in clover and when you’re dead, you’re dead all over.”

SEEN THROUGH A WINDOW

The fire in the grate is crackling and the room is warm; outside the window snow is gently falling and covering the street with its pure whiteness. I’m glad I’m not out there in the cold and instead can admire the view from the warmth of this room. A fragile girl in rags walks into my view of across the street and knocks on the door of the house opposite. It looks like she is trying to sell matches but is turned away. Shivering she slowly moves down the steps away from the door and to the side of the house; almost out of my range of sight. I move in my chair so as not to lose her, I’m captured by her innocence and want to know what she will do next. Part of me hopes she will knock on our door so I can invite her in and warm her by the fire.
She looks into the window of the house she has just visited, then away and crouches down in the street, right across from me. One of her matches is lit and she stares into the flame as though entranced by visions only she can see. I wish I could see what she does… I look about our front room at the large Christmas tree, decorated within an inch of its life, presents overflowing from beneath it and then back out the window at the tiny girl, she’s lit another match. I watch her as she stares into the flame letting it burn down to her tiny fingers, her blue lips moving as though in conversation.
I want to get up and go to her but I’m frozen like the snow outside on the street and can only sit and stare, wishing, hoping that she will knock on my door. Another match is lit, this time her movements are lethargic and she appears to be falling asleep outside in the cold. But it doesn’t stop her intently staring at the tiny flame which burns all the way to her fingers and seems to touch her just before she drops the charred remains on the ground.
Still staring out the window I stand ready to make for the door and go to her, but as I stand so does she and she walks around the side of the house and out of my line of sight. I sit back down again and wistfully stare out the window wondering how her Christmas will be.