Falling Leaves

by Ed Blundell

A deep carpet of old, gold leaves rolled across the garden pushed by the gusty November wind. Molly knew it would annoy Tom to see them, but at least he couldn’t complain that they came from the tree in their garden.

The old sycamore had been a part of her previous life. Her first husband, John, had loved it, built a treehouse for the children when they were little, hung a swing from its bough, romantically on their silver wedding anniversary, carved her name... She shut out the thoughts. John had died, she had married Tom, the tree had been cut down. It was no use brooding about it.

They had met shortly after John’s death. Tom had worked with John and visited to offer support. His own wife had died five years previously.

Molly had been touched by his kindness and flattered by his attention; and gratitude had moved to attraction. He had been amusing, supportive and kind, and soon they began to go out for meals together and to the theatre. She found that she could laugh and live again.

When he popped the question, she half-heartedly protested that it was too soon, but he had overridden her protests, pointing out that neither of them was in the first flush of youth and that they weren’t getting any younger.

Molly knew now that she should have waited. Lonely and desolate when John died and not thinking clearly, she became involved with Tom on the rebound from her loss. The first qualms were felt during the wedding preparations when he became domineering and insistent about every detail. He was a control freak and could not bear contradiction.

Perhaps she should have resisted him and taken a stand then, but it all seemed so unimportant compared to the other changes in her life. They had married, it was too late, things got worse.

Tom had moved in with her, selling his house as her bungalow was “easier to manage.” Immediately he had begun to change things. He redecorated the lounge, then had the kitchen altered and later spent hours in the garage, throwing into a skip the things that John had accumulated over the years.

“Clearing out the rubbish,” he had called it.

She had confided in her daughter who chided her. “Stand up to him, Mum. Tell him what you think. Take a stand on something. After all, it’s your house.”

But it was hard to take a stand against Tom, who was assertive, tough-minded and aggressive when challenged. And he sulked after any argument. So she gave in and let things happen. It made life easier, and she convinced herself that it didn’t really matter.

Tom then started on the garden. John had always been an enthusiastic gardener and grew annual and perennial flowers, roses and colourful, sweet smelling shrubs. Although Molly had never been a keen gardener, pottering and gentle pruning under his supervision had been a pleasure.

Tom had no such interest. He had the small front lawn and flower bed dug up and a stone patio laid. “It’s tidier,” he had argued, “And easier to maintain. We aren’t getting any younger.”

Molly had shed a quiet tear remembering the golden daffodils and the blue haze of forget-me-nots in the Spring and the vibrant red summer peonies that she would never see again. When he decided they should dig up the rose bed, she protested vigorously, and they argued for days but, as usual, she ended up giving way. Did she give way or did he just ignore her? It came to the same thing in the end.

Then a week ago, with no consultation, he had arranged for the tree to be cut down. Her faint attempts at protest were ignored or swept aside.

“It shades the house and the roots take all the good out of the soil.” he explained in an exasperated voice.

She couldn’t help remembering that last autumn, when their relationship was still developing, he had stood in the garden with her, drinking a glass of wine after their meal, and admired the carpet of multi-coloured fallen leaves.

“It’s as though they are alive,” he’d said as the leaves gently stirred in the evening wind and she had thought how romantic he was.

“How different things are now,” Molly sighed, discretely brushing away a tear. She closed her eyes, wishing things could be different. She wished that she had never remarried, that she had never met Tom, that she was free and that he was no longer in her life. What if he died as John had?

She dismissed the thought as soon as it came and felt a sudden surge of guilt. She had made her bed and she would have to lie on it. She looked towards the house and saw Tom standing in the window watching her.

Tom watched her in the garden in the early evening, autumn sunlight, lost in thought. “Probably gawping at the leaves and dreaming of her lost love,” he scowled to himself. She was soft; weak and soft like his first wife. He despised her sentimentality and the way she clung to the past and was resistant to any kind of change.

He glanced at the clock and saw that it was time for his evening stroll. Since he had moved in, he had taken to going for a walk on his own in the early evening, across the park, calling in at the Royal Oak for a drink or two before coming home for dinner.

Tapping on the window, Tom pointed at his watch and Molly nodded her head. He didn’t need to speak, the message was clear: I am going for my walk and a drink and I’ll be back in about an hour, so have my meal ready.

Putting on a heavy overcoat against the chill autumn breeze that cut across the late afternoon, he strode out towards the park, welcoming the thought of a cool pint of real ale at the pub and reflecting that he might even chase it down with a large scotch or two.

It was an hour and a half later when he eventually left the warmth of the Royal Oak and ventured out into the cold night air. The sun had more or less set now, and the sunset was hidden behind dark, threatening clouds. There was going to be a storm that night.

He strode out briskly, warmed by the drinks he had imbibed, a few more than he had planned but what the hell. He was late for the evening meal but didn’t care. Molly would suffer in silence and glance reproachfully with those big, brown cow eyes, but he would just ignore that.

Crossing the park, the darkness seemed to thicken and a biting wind cut into his face. He pulled his collar up and strode along the path towards home.

Somewhere to the side, something seemed to stir, a scuttling like someone scurrying in the dark leaves. He looked in the direction of the sound but could see nothing except the dark shadows cast by the trees. He walked on, shrugging his shoulders. A few steps later he heard the scrabbling sound again but this time on his other side. He turned and peered into the darkness but again could see nothing.

There had been stories of muggings reported in the local paper, but he had dismissed them. Suddenly he felt vulnerable. The rustling sound was coming from both sides now so he quickened his pace.

The scrabbling seemed to keep up with him as though large animals were pursuing him on each side of the path. He stopped, angry with himself for his trepidation and looked around. There was nothing to see, although the scurrying sound continued, and the wind was lifting the leaves like long, twisting serpents snaking across the grass. In front of him the path was covered by a whirlwind of demonic, twirling leaves.

He strode towards the whirlwind and felt it batter against his face, stinging and pricking. He hesitated and, as the intensity of the swirl seemed to increase, fell back. He tried to walk around the leaf storm and leaving the path, he walked across the grass. It was as though the whirling dervish of leaves pursued him and smote his face, stinging harder now. He broke into a jog across the field towards a small copse of trees but the whirling leaf storm was even more intense there.

By now, in spite of himself, he was beginning to panic. He retreated before the assault realising that he had lost his sense of direction. He blundered wildly and blindly away into the trees. In the copse as he paused to regain his breath, the storm struck him again with an increased, fierce frenzy. He felt the leaves lashing his face, blinding him. He opened his mouth to call out for help and it was instantly filled with dry, leaves. Staggering backwards, he lost his balance and fell into a hollow in the ground.

A wave of leaves washed over him, choking his breath away. He felt he was drowning, sinking and, try as he might, he could not stand. He could not scream or cry out, He could see nothing and was drowning in an ever-deepening sea of leaves. Eventually, his desperate struggles weakened and became spasmodic twitches and, finally, he lay still.

The fierce storm subsided. Slowly across the dark land, a serpent of leaves slid into the copse, covering him with ever deeper layers until nothing could be seen of his body beneath the thick carpet of old, rolled, gold leaves.