It was only a fortnight since ‘the incident’ in my grandparent’s garden. August’s weather remained hot and sticky, bees and butterflies drunk with nectar under a cloudless blue sky. Nothing had changed in the long sloping garden at the back of the house. The stream and ponds were still there punctuated by several bridges – a couple of well cut grassy ones, a pebble effect version and finally a fancy arched affair complete with sharp red gravel topping next to the largest and deepest pond. Neither it nor the pond seemed any the worse since ‘the incident’. In the distance I could hear the reassuring familiar sounds of a lawn being mowed, general chatter and the clatter of tea cups being laid out on the patio table.
I decided to exorcise my experience by returning to the exact spot and peer into the murky depth for tadpoles amongst the green shiny lilies, but on my approach realised I was feeling a little giddy. The air was close and my feet and legs felt heavy as if being sucked into quick sand. I knew I shouldn’t have been venturing anywhere near the pond and ran the risk of being spotted from the house, so my hearing was on full alert. I could almost hear the shriek of “Catharine come here this minute!” Hearing my name in full was never good news. I could still picture the adults uncharacteristically running down the lawn in my direction, the frantic shouting, my shock, their shock, the weight of my wet clothes, the water seeping up to my armpits and the putrid smell of green algae in my hair. Having escaped one water plunge, I was soon in another, albeit a warm one having my hair vigorously shampooed or was it scoured by my hysterical mother, my tears ignored.
Alas my tranquil pond had shown its true colours, my innocence was injured.
The Gardens, ‘Tree Tops’, Wark, Northumberland by R C Graham, 1959
