Illustration by Lee Kuruganti © 2007
A Perfectly Clichéd Day
John Irvine © 2007
What a morning! Crisp and bright, cloudless sky, no wind... the world a truly delightful cliché. The Coromandel Peninsula was indeed a paradise on earth.
It was not too far past dawn, and the birds were already celebrating the day with a cacophony of twitterings, chirpings and songs. Harold smiled and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back. He loved these early morning strolls through their one acre English-style garden in the autumn. The leaves were changing and the sun shimmered through the canopy of gold and red and brown like a Technicolour disco ball.
“Ready, love?”
Briony slipped her arms around Harold's narrow waist, burying her face in the coarse fabric of his jacket. She breathed in deeply, the tweedy, manly smell almost overpowering her, and for a second she considered suggesting exercise of a different sort.
“Mmmmmmm.” It was all she could muster by way of a reply.
Together, hand-in-hand, they began their circuit of the gardens, past immaculate rose bushes, pansies, dahlias, forgetmenots, gladioli. Every flower in every hue dwelt harmoniously here, and it was their one sin - that of pride. They spent many hours here together, weeding, chatting, laughing, planting, playing like children. Since Harold had retired from the NZ Army they had discovered new facets of one another, new avenues to explore, and were revelling in it.
A V-flight of geese flew high and fast overhead off to warmer climes, their mournful cries almost funereal,. A blackbird worried a reluctant worm from the immaculately-trimmed lawn, and both stopped to watch the uneven struggle with amusement.
Passing through a weathered trellis bower smothered with perfumed dog roses, they stopped by the koi pool for a moment. They enjoyed these zen-like fish, their unhurried movements strangely serene.
Harold threw his head back and yawned a mighty yawn, sucking in great gulps of the delicious if chilly air. There was a loud screeching, and all Briony remembered seeing was a whirring streak of brown crashing into Harold's face, knocking him down. She gasped as Harold's head struck the stone surround of the pool, rendering him unconscious. A few brown feathers floated down to rest on his brocaded vest. Briony flung herself down onto the pebbled path at his side, calling his name.
Harold was breathing with difficulty, and bleeding profusely from a cut on the back of his head, but he was alive. Briony fumbled the cell phone from Harold's right hand jacket pocket, noticing a small tear where the pocket's flap had evidently caught something as he fell. She made a mental note to call Harold's tailor later.
“Hello? Ambulance? It's my husband, he's had a fall. Pardon? Yes, he's unconscious and has difficulty breathing. No, I don't think it's a heart attack, he was knocked down by something. A bird, I think. Please hurry.” She gave the necessary directions, and it wasn't long before she heard the strident sound of the ambulance siren, and heard its tyres scrunching on the gravel driveway.
“Here! Over here!” She waved her arms frantically at the vehicle as it made its way up the long, curving drive and stopped beside the fish pond. Two paramedics swiftly and efficiently knelt by Harold's side with a bag and commenced their examination. Harold's breath was rasping, and, bending over Harold's face, one of the men stuck two fingers down his throat and drew forth a smallish, very dead bird. Harold coughed once, and drew in a long, ragged breath.
“Is he all right? Will he be OK?” Briony was wringing her hands, trembling and weeping quietly.
“Oh, yea. No worries. He'll be just fine, love. But I tell ya this is the worst case of thrush I've ever seen!”
