I must admit that I was most surprised to find myself in the Vicar’s garden at six in the morning. Obviously I had been there many times before - fortnightly in fact for the past eight months since George, the village’s incumbent gardener-for-hire, had decided to hang up his shears for Miriam, the post lady, whose husband passed away some years before in a most unfortunate rowing accident. Anyway, I digress, as the point of importance in my somewhat distracted description, was that dispite the gentle spring sunlight, there was no evidence of how I had come to be lying, face down, on the Vicar’s lawn, early one Saturday morning. No darkened footsteps through the warming frost, or even the tire mark of a wheelbarrow that may have been used to carry an unconscious (surely the reason for my complete lack of recollection of the journey here, and in fact most of Friday night) person halfway across the village.
I felt my scalp for signs of bruising, whilst simultaneously doing a “systems check” on my internal organs, much like a computer whirling to life first thing in the morning. No bruising, no headache, no hangover, but certainly a memory error.
Slowly I pushed myself in to a seated position, now noticing that I was cold and soaked through - I had been here some time, a deduction supported by the frosted silhouette on the lawn beside me, seemingly staring at the hideous victorian street lamp that the Vicar insisted took pride out of place in the beautifully sculpted, vibrant garden experience that I had spent four months designing and building.
I began to retrace my last memory, much like rewinding a video tape that has run past the last transmission of the evening - static, more static and then there I was - walking along the bridle path that runs through the maize field but a quarter of a mile from the Vicarage. Well trodden and muddy at this time of year from so many pony treks and enthusiastic mountain bikers, it was hard going, yet saved more than fifteen minutes off of the journey from the Writer’s Block Arms, back to my two up, two down, that would one day, I promise, actually have four habitable rooms.
But what happened between ten in the evening, and six in the morning? Eight hours of lost time? I hurredly patted myself down, checking for wounds that may have been caused by alien abduction which, between you and me, has bothered me since I saw Close Encounters when I was five. No signs meant one less explanation, reducing possible hypotheses down to infinity less one.
A dog barked in the field, and this not only brought me to my senses, but triggered a memory - a cat, screeching, yes! I heard it from the bridle path, coming from somewhere near the Vicarage! I trudged through the mud, thankful that years of guiding had taught me to be prepared, and as such my wellies kept muck from trousers. Standing at the wall that seperated Vicarage grounds from muddy field, I could hear a cat, crying above me, from one of the tall pines that kept my beautiful garden hidden from prying farmers’ eyes. But at thirty feet high, and with no torch or moonlight to guide my ascent, I was sure that I didn’t make such a climb, and if I had, I would have had to be right at the top to make it to the centre of the garden, and then only if I jumped.
I looked up at the line of pines, scanning for something, or someone, knowing that if I fell from that height, I would surely be injured. Yet there I sat, not so much as a bruise on my backside.
It was then, just at the moment that I was about to just drag myself home, hoping not to awaken the Vicar, that I noticed something lying at the base of the tallest pine. Painted metal and a rubber handle, I recognised it immediately, and I also knew its owner. Suddenly I knew exactly what had caused my memory error, and why I had climbed the tree.
