There was supposed to be a party.
A large, pedantically arranged summer garden party, with slow flowing wine, crisp sugared petals and slices of fresh lemon cake. Pine deck chairs, a matching table, and lace table cloth that was held down by delicate china; a pitcher of ice cold water and crumbling Victoria sponge- it was finally summer. Even the sun had come out.
The tea was stewing in the cold kitchen, no doubt, and there was a swing song on the wireless that was making the boy’s feet tap idly as he sat on the furthest garden wall; grey stone matched his grey flannel trousers and jacket, sleeves rolled up and layered over the top of a white, well washed shirt. He blended in splendidly. His mother had told him to dress smartly, but the heat was sweltering and she’d even taken off her stockings, drawing a line down the back of her leg in some form of makeup instead. If she could keep cool in the blistering heat, then why did he have to wear a suit? Short trousers would have been much better, but he had none. Father had said they were for little boys, and God knew that he wasn’t a child anymore. He knew that- so he melted in what felt like a permanent Turkish bath as he sat, overlooking the steep hill that lead down to the farmers fields below. The garden was beautiful in the summer, with it’s bright flowers splashing colours over the greenery; the lupins dotted white, pink and purple, whilst the hibiscus manihot made yellow dribble through the fresh green, fighting for space among the hollyhock and roses. His eyes assimilated the many colours, noting the shapes of the petals, like the roundness of a woman’s-
Laugh.
His head snapped up, hair momentarily clouding his vision. With a swoop of a hand, he brushed it from his face and dragged his eyes along the garden- a woman, dressed in a pale pink dress with a bolero, and a wide brimmed hat which a small bee landed on. She moved her hands about as she laughed with his mother, a diamond ring glittering at her knuckle. Her husband, however, was nowhere to be seen: a widow? No. Too young, too modern, too alive. Suddenly, she swiped her hands about her face, letting out a strangled laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. It was the bee. She attempted to push it away but it returned, making a soft, gentle noise like the hum of the television set. The woman, with a startlingly fierce look on his face, clapped her hands together with a resounding yell and then smiled, all teeth and whiteness. To his horror, he saw her pick out a stinger from the centre of her hand, and placed the injured area into her delicate mouth. His mother fussed around, getting ice and a strong drink for her, but she laughed. She always seemed to laugh, and for a brief moment, their eyes met across the garden. Then, as though she hadn’t murdered the bee, she started swaying her hips to the music on the wireless and took the drink mother gave her.
**
He watched, green eyes sharp and steadfast on the seethe of people flickering through the back door into the wide, green garden like a convey of dissimulated cats. Feline like, they scratched behind his mother’s ears with kind compliments about how wonderful the garden looked- that was why they were dissimulated. Liars, he thought: all of them. The garden looked like it always did, with a few added pieces of crockery, and maybe the grass was a little neater around where the plants lived. But there was no real difference to it- nothing that made it any more beautiful. No one would notice even if they had made it look different- no one was observant enough. They all saw, yes, with their beady eyes and ugly eyelids that covered their true eyes, the eyes that allowed them to truly see, truly watch and feel with their senses. They all were too concerned with what they saw at a glance than the true details; full of eagerness to destroy what was truly beautiful, what was the point of these people? There was none.
