Boneyard (Monologue)
06th November 2011
In: Short Stories
The scene is a cluttered front room in an old Victorian house. The door opens and an elderly woman with a walking stick enters. Out of breath and desperate to sit down, she lowers herself into an armchair and nods at a photograph of a man placed on a side table.
Oh, that’s better! I’m that relieved to be home — I don’t think I could have walked another step! I’ll just catch me breath a minute and get these pesky shoes off.
She reaches down awkwardly and undoes the laces.
I shouldn’t have gone, really. Might’ve known it would be too much — all that standing about. The painkillers wore off after the first hour or so and me joints have been giving me such gyp. I did warn Chelsea I can’t stay on me feet for long these days, but she keeps nothing in her head, that girl. In one ear and out the other. I had to insist she bring me back early, in the end. Not that I was sorry to leave. I thought it was just going to be paintings — like those galleries we used to go to when we were courting. Maybe a few sculptures, too. But the stuff they call Art these days, well — it’s nothing like. You get all sorts now. They call them “installations” according to Chelsea. Beats me what most of them are supposed to be. I asked a few questions and tried to sound interested but she kept talking about some chap called Damien Hirst, whoever he is. Then she described how he pickled half a cow in a big tank and put it on display. I told her I wouldn’t walk down the road to see that sort of thing. We lived near an abbatoir when I was young, so if I wanted to see dead animals cut up all I had to do was take a peek round the door when the slaughterman was working his way through a herd. It wasn’t a pretty sight back then, and I doubt much has changed. It’s certainly not something I need reminding of. And if folk think that’s Art, then they’re a bit queer in the head!
Pause. She rubs her legs thoughtfully.
I didn’t say that, though. Chelsea seemed really excited about being in the show I didn’t want to spoil it for her. She’s got an odd lot of friends, too. She kept introducing me as her great gran and they all seemed surprised. Like I must be some sort of living fossil. One of them kept saying “wow” like she couldn’t believe it and then had the cheek to ask me how old I am. No manners. I told her I was born in 1923 and let her work it out. After that, she kept patting my arm every so often, and asking how I was doing. I’m guessing she was American.
Pause. She shakes her head and sighs, then reaches for the photograph.
Well, no doubt you’ll be wanting to hear about our Chelsea’s exhibits. When she took me into the gallery, she kept saying her new work probably wouldn’t exactly be my cup of tea, but I could tell she still wanted my approval, for all that. And she wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t pretend I actually liked either of her pieces. But I didn’t have the heart to say so. Remember how she used to bring us her strange drawings and plasticine models when she was small? The look on her face today was just the same. So, I couldn’t let her down, could I? With the set of parents she’s got, I’m the only reliable family she has, poor child. So, when she asked me what I thought, I didn’t exactly lie to her, but I did stretch the truth quite a bit...
She smiles, dusts the photograph with her sleeve and puts it back on the table.
You were always the diplomatic one. You always knew the right thing to say to her and took care not to hurt her feelings. She misses you, y’know — I can tell...
Anyway, the first exhibit she showed me was like a sculpture made from clay and wire. It was half a pot with an acorn in it. The acorn had wires coming out of it like it was sprouting, and the wires had things attached and hanging like miniature fruits or decorations. It was all done very small and I had to put my glasses on but I still wasn’t sure what they were meant to be. It was called “Forest of Dreams” so maybe it wasn’t supposed to make sense. The price tag certainly didn’t. Five hundred pounds! I felt like saying someone had got the decimal point in the wrong place as a fiver would be nearer the mark — and she’d be lucky to get that — but I held my tongue. If people’ll buy piles of bricks or unmade beds and call it Art, then I’ll guess they’ll buy anything.
Next, she led me over to this arrangement of little wooden boxes — all end to end along a shelf. Like tiny coffins, they were, and all lined up and painted in different shades of green and brown. They had bones in them. Bones of mice and voles and shrews, she reckoned, and some were from birds — little skulls the size of a thimble. Made me shiver just to look at them. I thought what a strange thing for a young girl to think of to do — mess about with bones like that. She must have seen I looked baffled so she went on about the purity of the bones — how thin and delicate and so on. She explained how she’d collected them — found them in the road or after she’d gone poking about in hedges and such for dead things. Then how she’d cleaned them in acid and made all the boxes, painted them and carved symbols on the sides. Took her quite a time, I’d imagine. Twelve of them, all exactly three inches long by an inch and a half wide. I said it was “unusual” — couldn’t think what else to call it. She seemed okay with that, like it was a positive comment when she’d been expecting something critical. It was listed on the pamphlet as “Bone Yard” by Chelsea Coombes-Parker. I noticed a lot of double-barrelled names in the list of artists exhibiting. I suppose our Chelsea thinks tacking on her mother’s maiden name adds something. I didn’t comment that it’s probably the only thing Veronica is ever likely to contribute to her daughter’s artistic career. Obviously couldn’t drag herself away from her boarding cattery to attend the preview. Like she couldn’t find someone else to mind the moggies for a few hours. Small wonder Graham went off to live in Portugal with his gym instructor. Not that he’s any better — shows very little paternal instinct...
Pause
Now, where was I? Well, me legs were starting to play up and all I really wanted to do was find somewhere to sit down. Then this posh couple came up and Chelsea introduced them as the gallery owners. Gordon and Joanna Haynes-something-or-other. Another double-barrelled name. Pots of money — you only had to look at them. They were quite nice but a bit gushing. They were full of praise for Chelsea’s work — kept saying how talented she is and how proud I must be. I agreed with them and kept smiling, despite me legs, although it was hard going after a while. These support stockings aren’t nearly as good as the adverts make out... Anyway, it all got me thinking — their enthusiasm and all those sad little coffins... I need to think about changing me will. There’s no point in leaving this place to Graham, is there? What does he want with a crumbling old property in England when he’s nicely set up with a villa in sunny Portugal. Besides, apart from Christmas and birthdays, I never hear from him from one year’s end to the next. He’s hardly a dutiful grandson. So, I’m thinking of leaving more-or-less everything to Chelsea. Maybe I’ll pick a few charities from all those appeals that keep flooding through the letterbox and make some small bequests. Since losing Mavis last month, I’ve no one living I can really talk to. Looking at those bones this afternoon made me think of her. She shrank away to next to nothing in the end — lost no end of weight once the cancer took hold. The undertakers did a good job but it didn’t really look like her at all. As I said at the time, I’d never seen her before when her lips weren’t moving — she always nattered nineteen to the dozen and no one else could get a word in. Can’t imagine I’ll ever get used to you both being gone...
She sighs deeply, pauses, then continues
I’ll have to shift meself and go and put the kettle on in a minute — I’m absolutely parched. They kept offering me wine at the gallery but I said I couldn’t because of the medication I’m on. Chelsea got me a glass of spring water with a hint of elderflower. It was quite refreshing but what I really would have liked was a cup of tea. You always made a good brew. I miss that... She’s been nagging me again about getting a wheelchair — a folding one that will fit in her car — says I shouldn’t put it off any longer. Perhaps she’s right. It’s just that I never saw myself as really needing one — wheelchairs are for folk who can’t walk at all, I always thought. She said she could push me round all the big galleries and museums because all sorts of places have wheelchair access nowadays. So when I said I’ll think about it, she took a load of leaflets out of her bag for me to look at. Nothing if not persistant, our Chelsea. She must get if from me.
Pause
But it’s got me thinking, you know. About me savings and how long I might have left. What am I still saving for? Might as well make a bit of a splash and have a decent holiday before I go. I could take Chelsea on a trip — one of these organised tours they do that visit famous foreign art galleries and museums. You remember Mavis bragging about her and George visiting the Louvre in Paris and seeing the Mona Lisa? It was just after that we got those brochures from the travel agents and we were on the point of booking for Venice when you got that attack of gout and we had to shelve the idea. Not your fault, of course. But it was a real shame we didn’t get to have that holiday... we didn’t even manage any days out that summer and it was a real scorcher.
She takes a hankerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and blows her nose.
Still, no good going on about it, is there? It wasn’t to be. But lately I fancy a change of scenery and they say travel broadens the mind. And there’s not much to stay here for — no one to miss me. Perhaps I’ll end up like one of those old biddies you see in movies — the widows that sell up and move to California for the weather — all tanned wrinkles and jogging bottoms, living in glorified beach huts and playing bridge all afternoon. It would make a change from Age Concern coffee mornings and flower arranging classes. But I shouldn’t be ungrateful, I know. It’s just things get me down a bit, and I miss you. And Mavis, of course. And I never got to go on a plane and it might be my last chance. I know about the terrorist thing — the bomb threats and all. But I just figure that people are still flying to and fro all the time, despite the risks. And at my age, it’s not as if I’ve a great deal to lose really. Or we could always go by train — go under that tunnel they made so much fuss about. I’ll talk to Chelsea about it and see what she thinks. My guess is that she’ll plump for flying. Fearless, that girl. Always has been.
She sinks back against the cushions, sighs, and closes her eyes. Her voice begins to drift.
D’you know, I’m that pooped I think I’ll just have forty winks before I get my tea. I wish I could stop thinking about all those little boxes of bones — it’s enough to give you nightmares. I bet they won’t have stuff like that in any of them famous galleries. It’ll do Chelsea good to see some proper art...
END
Oh, that’s better! I’m that relieved to be home — I don’t think I could have walked another step! I’ll just catch me breath a minute and get these pesky shoes off.
She reaches down awkwardly and undoes the laces.
I shouldn’t have gone, really. Might’ve known it would be too much — all that standing about. The painkillers wore off after the first hour or so and me joints have been giving me such gyp. I did warn Chelsea I can’t stay on me feet for long these days, but she keeps nothing in her head, that girl. In one ear and out the other. I had to insist she bring me back early, in the end. Not that I was sorry to leave. I thought it was just going to be paintings — like those galleries we used to go to when we were courting. Maybe a few sculptures, too. But the stuff they call Art these days, well — it’s nothing like. You get all sorts now. They call them “installations” according to Chelsea. Beats me what most of them are supposed to be. I asked a few questions and tried to sound interested but she kept talking about some chap called Damien Hirst, whoever he is. Then she described how he pickled half a cow in a big tank and put it on display. I told her I wouldn’t walk down the road to see that sort of thing. We lived near an abbatoir when I was young, so if I wanted to see dead animals cut up all I had to do was take a peek round the door when the slaughterman was working his way through a herd. It wasn’t a pretty sight back then, and I doubt much has changed. It’s certainly not something I need reminding of. And if folk think that’s Art, then they’re a bit queer in the head!
Pause. She rubs her legs thoughtfully.
I didn’t say that, though. Chelsea seemed really excited about being in the show I didn’t want to spoil it for her. She’s got an odd lot of friends, too. She kept introducing me as her great gran and they all seemed surprised. Like I must be some sort of living fossil. One of them kept saying “wow” like she couldn’t believe it and then had the cheek to ask me how old I am. No manners. I told her I was born in 1923 and let her work it out. After that, she kept patting my arm every so often, and asking how I was doing. I’m guessing she was American.
Pause. She shakes her head and sighs, then reaches for the photograph.
Well, no doubt you’ll be wanting to hear about our Chelsea’s exhibits. When she took me into the gallery, she kept saying her new work probably wouldn’t exactly be my cup of tea, but I could tell she still wanted my approval, for all that. And she wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t pretend I actually liked either of her pieces. But I didn’t have the heart to say so. Remember how she used to bring us her strange drawings and plasticine models when she was small? The look on her face today was just the same. So, I couldn’t let her down, could I? With the set of parents she’s got, I’m the only reliable family she has, poor child. So, when she asked me what I thought, I didn’t exactly lie to her, but I did stretch the truth quite a bit...
She smiles, dusts the photograph with her sleeve and puts it back on the table.
You were always the diplomatic one. You always knew the right thing to say to her and took care not to hurt her feelings. She misses you, y’know — I can tell...
Anyway, the first exhibit she showed me was like a sculpture made from clay and wire. It was half a pot with an acorn in it. The acorn had wires coming out of it like it was sprouting, and the wires had things attached and hanging like miniature fruits or decorations. It was all done very small and I had to put my glasses on but I still wasn’t sure what they were meant to be. It was called “Forest of Dreams” so maybe it wasn’t supposed to make sense. The price tag certainly didn’t. Five hundred pounds! I felt like saying someone had got the decimal point in the wrong place as a fiver would be nearer the mark — and she’d be lucky to get that — but I held my tongue. If people’ll buy piles of bricks or unmade beds and call it Art, then I’ll guess they’ll buy anything.
Next, she led me over to this arrangement of little wooden boxes — all end to end along a shelf. Like tiny coffins, they were, and all lined up and painted in different shades of green and brown. They had bones in them. Bones of mice and voles and shrews, she reckoned, and some were from birds — little skulls the size of a thimble. Made me shiver just to look at them. I thought what a strange thing for a young girl to think of to do — mess about with bones like that. She must have seen I looked baffled so she went on about the purity of the bones — how thin and delicate and so on. She explained how she’d collected them — found them in the road or after she’d gone poking about in hedges and such for dead things. Then how she’d cleaned them in acid and made all the boxes, painted them and carved symbols on the sides. Took her quite a time, I’d imagine. Twelve of them, all exactly three inches long by an inch and a half wide. I said it was “unusual” — couldn’t think what else to call it. She seemed okay with that, like it was a positive comment when she’d been expecting something critical. It was listed on the pamphlet as “Bone Yard” by Chelsea Coombes-Parker. I noticed a lot of double-barrelled names in the list of artists exhibiting. I suppose our Chelsea thinks tacking on her mother’s maiden name adds something. I didn’t comment that it’s probably the only thing Veronica is ever likely to contribute to her daughter’s artistic career. Obviously couldn’t drag herself away from her boarding cattery to attend the preview. Like she couldn’t find someone else to mind the moggies for a few hours. Small wonder Graham went off to live in Portugal with his gym instructor. Not that he’s any better — shows very little paternal instinct...
Pause
Now, where was I? Well, me legs were starting to play up and all I really wanted to do was find somewhere to sit down. Then this posh couple came up and Chelsea introduced them as the gallery owners. Gordon and Joanna Haynes-something-or-other. Another double-barrelled name. Pots of money — you only had to look at them. They were quite nice but a bit gushing. They were full of praise for Chelsea’s work — kept saying how talented she is and how proud I must be. I agreed with them and kept smiling, despite me legs, although it was hard going after a while. These support stockings aren’t nearly as good as the adverts make out... Anyway, it all got me thinking — their enthusiasm and all those sad little coffins... I need to think about changing me will. There’s no point in leaving this place to Graham, is there? What does he want with a crumbling old property in England when he’s nicely set up with a villa in sunny Portugal. Besides, apart from Christmas and birthdays, I never hear from him from one year’s end to the next. He’s hardly a dutiful grandson. So, I’m thinking of leaving more-or-less everything to Chelsea. Maybe I’ll pick a few charities from all those appeals that keep flooding through the letterbox and make some small bequests. Since losing Mavis last month, I’ve no one living I can really talk to. Looking at those bones this afternoon made me think of her. She shrank away to next to nothing in the end — lost no end of weight once the cancer took hold. The undertakers did a good job but it didn’t really look like her at all. As I said at the time, I’d never seen her before when her lips weren’t moving — she always nattered nineteen to the dozen and no one else could get a word in. Can’t imagine I’ll ever get used to you both being gone...
She sighs deeply, pauses, then continues
I’ll have to shift meself and go and put the kettle on in a minute — I’m absolutely parched. They kept offering me wine at the gallery but I said I couldn’t because of the medication I’m on. Chelsea got me a glass of spring water with a hint of elderflower. It was quite refreshing but what I really would have liked was a cup of tea. You always made a good brew. I miss that... She’s been nagging me again about getting a wheelchair — a folding one that will fit in her car — says I shouldn’t put it off any longer. Perhaps she’s right. It’s just that I never saw myself as really needing one — wheelchairs are for folk who can’t walk at all, I always thought. She said she could push me round all the big galleries and museums because all sorts of places have wheelchair access nowadays. So when I said I’ll think about it, she took a load of leaflets out of her bag for me to look at. Nothing if not persistant, our Chelsea. She must get if from me.
Pause
But it’s got me thinking, you know. About me savings and how long I might have left. What am I still saving for? Might as well make a bit of a splash and have a decent holiday before I go. I could take Chelsea on a trip — one of these organised tours they do that visit famous foreign art galleries and museums. You remember Mavis bragging about her and George visiting the Louvre in Paris and seeing the Mona Lisa? It was just after that we got those brochures from the travel agents and we were on the point of booking for Venice when you got that attack of gout and we had to shelve the idea. Not your fault, of course. But it was a real shame we didn’t get to have that holiday... we didn’t even manage any days out that summer and it was a real scorcher.
She takes a hankerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and blows her nose.
Still, no good going on about it, is there? It wasn’t to be. But lately I fancy a change of scenery and they say travel broadens the mind. And there’s not much to stay here for — no one to miss me. Perhaps I’ll end up like one of those old biddies you see in movies — the widows that sell up and move to California for the weather — all tanned wrinkles and jogging bottoms, living in glorified beach huts and playing bridge all afternoon. It would make a change from Age Concern coffee mornings and flower arranging classes. But I shouldn’t be ungrateful, I know. It’s just things get me down a bit, and I miss you. And Mavis, of course. And I never got to go on a plane and it might be my last chance. I know about the terrorist thing — the bomb threats and all. But I just figure that people are still flying to and fro all the time, despite the risks. And at my age, it’s not as if I’ve a great deal to lose really. Or we could always go by train — go under that tunnel they made so much fuss about. I’ll talk to Chelsea about it and see what she thinks. My guess is that she’ll plump for flying. Fearless, that girl. Always has been.
She sinks back against the cushions, sighs, and closes her eyes. Her voice begins to drift.
D’you know, I’m that pooped I think I’ll just have forty winks before I get my tea. I wish I could stop thinking about all those little boxes of bones — it’s enough to give you nightmares. I bet they won’t have stuff like that in any of them famous galleries. It’ll do Chelsea good to see some proper art...
END