The Garden Path: DREAMSCAPES

By Marina Gerrard

One sunny morning Aidan's life turns a corner and goes off at a tangent. Strange things begin to happen. Being a laid-back lad he lets it all wash over him. Eventually he wakes up to the fact that he is being taken on a bizarre stroll up and down the garden path. By then it is too late to do anything about it. All he can do is follow hints and clues and hope for something, anything, that makes sense of it all.

 

It is definitely novel for Aiden to shoot out of bed at 3.30 am. But that is what happens. It is the start of the strangest day in his life. Dancing with the garden, bubbling and rising up the filter of his percolator, doing the salsa down the aisles of the supermarket are just the beginning of it. Then a box appears with an invite to the party of a mysterious stranger. That is when it all spins rapidly out of control.

 

Gates and people appear and disappear in a most confusing manner. The party and the host are nowhere to be found. There is nothing that makes sense. On top of that he is beginning to feel he is the victim of a whole lot of pranksters.

Oh, there are moments when he is enjoying the fun and games. But on the whole he thinks he would prefer to have a drink in hand and forget about the world. Admittedly he did come looking for something to spice up his life. But when all is said and done, he feels it is all basically too much of a muchness.

 

If only he weren't such a laid-back lad.

Grmff.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Gerrard
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393532019

Book preview

I. ‘SALSA-ME-HERE-AND-SALSA-ME-THERE’

---

That day his life turned a corner and went off at a tangent. Not that he took a blind bit of notice. Of course not but that was so like him, wasn’t it. Unheeding even when things were staring him in the face and giving him the wink-wink-nudge-nudge. When he finally did take notice it was too late. Of course.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t have seen it. Of course he could. The signs were right there, weren’t they? None of them actually momentous in themselves but when he looked back -as he eventually did- and added them up the sum total showed a pattern. Oh, a dim one to be sure, but a pattern all the same. With it had come a feeling. The feeling that an unseen hand was pulling him down an invisible road in an unknown direction. No sooner had he clarified this feeling to himself but the pattern became clearer too. It felt like an invitation to come and do something. Not a clue what that something was. Or even whose the invitation was. The mystery of it had him hooked. Instantly. Of course it had.

The whole thing intrigued and peeved him at the same time. He would dearly like to know the what and the how of it. And even more the why. Of course he would. He didn’t like to dangle without being able to jump, did he now. Of course not. That would be so unlike him, wouldn’t it! So he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. He traced the pattern -such as it was- back to the few clues he did have and tried to make hay of them. Surely it would all be revealed later, wouldn’t it? Of course it would. He couldn’t image it wouldn’t.

First there had been that unusually early start of the day. He wasn’t and never had been an early riser. Far from it but there it was. The memory was a vivid one.

---

He did not know what woke him but whatever it was it made him sit bolt upright in bed. Eyes closed and still in deep sleep mode. With difficulty he opened one lazy eyeball to check the time. 3.30 am. Bloody hell! His eye drooped shut but sleep did not return. He lay back and listened.

Nothing.

The house was still but the stillness was filled with a hushed kind of silence. There was no wind. No sound of any description. And yet the silence wasn’t empty. It felt like - he groped for the word. Was it waiting? He frowned. No. It was more than that. Expectation. Yes! That was it. Expectation.

Then it came again. A high, piercing, melodious trill. The wake-up call of a blackbird signalling the approach of dawn. This time he shot out of bed, instantly awake and aware of something about to happen.

Not bothering to get washed or dressed he rushed down the stairs in his pyjamas. He opened the backdoor just as the dawn chorus started. Birds warbled, tweeted, chirped and piped. The garden yawned and stretched and opened like a flower. Sap rose, leaves unfurled, buds popped. A heavy, intoxicating scent filled the air. He breathed it in. It made his veins tingle and itch. Instantly his senses extended.

Soft like velvet the garden wrapped herself around him. Her breath touched his ear. He heard her whisper and knew she was talking to him but he could not make out the words, no matter how hard he tried.

He ached to hold her but she just laughed at him. She was too busy reaching and stretching and spiralling outward, searching for the sun instead. He had to content himself with reaching and stretching and spiralling with her. Up and out, towards where the light was greying from dusk into dawn.

Slowly but surely dawn filtered in. Diffuse rays of sunlight pierced the horizon. Grey changed into sepia, sepia into pinks and yellows. A film of colour washed over everything and made the contours of trees and bushes stand out.

Then the sun herself popped her head over the rim and a small finger of light touched the heart of the garden. A bolt of energy shot through him like an electric current. The garden began to dance. Leaves rustled, trees and bushes swayed. Flowers dipped and twirled their petals. Grass furled and unfurled. Colours pulsed and throbbed like perfume. A flame of joy kindled and flared. It galvanized him into action. The garden swung her hips and sang to him, beckoning and luring and inviting him to dance with her. Melting into her arms he danced with her until the sun slipped behind the trees. He woke to himself standing somewhat forlornly in the middle of the garden, wondering what he was doing there. His arms felt empty. His ears still strained to hear what seemed to be a voice singing but the sound was gone before he could capture it. It had the feel of something he should remember but the memory was elusive and only left a faint scent of regret.

A slight breeze started up and moved the wind chime at the far end of the garden. Nothing else was heard. The dawn chorus had finished. His pyjamas were wet and cold. He shivered and quickly went back inside. Who in his right mind would go out at that time in the morning to hear birds twitter? It didn’t bear thinking of and yet there he had been. Out in the garden at dawn, if you please, and none the wiser for it. Only colder. He shook his head, bewildered by it all. He felt strangely alert, though. Almost as if a film had been washed from his eyes. Everything in the kitchen appeared bright and clean. Joy bubbled inside him. Aware that something had happened when he was out in the garden he opened the backdoor again and looked at it. A shimmering bluish light clung to the top of the trees but that was all. He closed the door and went upstairs to change.

That had been number one. He was sure of it. He had been dead to the world before that. Not surprising, was it, after the binge of the night before. He grunted. More of a surprise really that he hadn’t been sporting a massive headache after. Huge bonus that was. Instead he had found himself having breakfast. Breakfast! Unthinkable. Under the circumstances that was, of course. That was also when the next little episode happened, wasn’t it. Yep!

---

Breakfast was the usual affair but the taste of cereal sat unusually vibrant on his tongue. For the first time in his life he noticed what he was eating. The little sunbursts that were sultanas, the rough tickle that were oats, the satisfying crunch that were nuts. Each ingredient with its own flavour. Enjoyment filled his belly. He stretched luxuriously when he was done.

He checked the time. 7.30 am. A nice cup of coffee would go down well. He whistled to himself as he ground the coffee beans and got the percolator going. For a tiny instant he seemed to hear a voice singing in tune with his whistle. He stopped to listen. Nothing. Must have been a blackbird whistling back at him. He smiled and sat down. He gave his eyes a rest while the percolator was doing its thing on the stove. He felt the water warming up. Slowly he reached boiling point and steamed his way up the little tube, luxuriated in his rise through the filter and the coffee grinds. He was bubbling and burbling nicely as he made little tinker bells. He lost himself in the deep, dark aroma that made him so special. Fiesta Colombiana in three dimensions. His mouth watered.

When the smell of freshly made coffee grabbed him by the nose, he opened his eyes. His coffee was ready. At long last. Patience was virtue that he didn’t have. He picked up a tea towel, took the percolator of the stove and poured his first cup of the day.

As it softly slid down his gullet he heard music playing. His hips gyrated in tune. Excitement bitement. He was ready to clap his hands and shout ‘Ole’ when he suddenly remembered he could not dance and his hips were never made for the type of salsa he was performing just then.

That had been number two. Number three had happened in the supermarket. He was sure of it.

---

As it was his day off he went to do his shopping early. He was taking his trolley down aisle 4 (Dairy & Desserts), unable as per usual to make up his mind, when a loud crackle caught his ear. Before he had a chance to trace where it came from it was joined by other sounds. There was a swish and a swoosh. Topped by a pling and a plink. Then the crackle again. In came a rattle and a roll. From the further down a tring and a plock, the sound of metal dropping on wood. In between a low hubbub of vocals rose and fell. Gradually the whole thing blended into one and gained a kind of rhythm. The rhythm took hold of his trolley and before he knew it he was swinging and swaying up and down the aisles, with a wibble here and a wobble there, then a kick and a flick. When he turned into the next aisle he pirouetted the trolley with him on two wheels. Oblivious to the raised eyebrows and suppressed laughter around him he did something with his behind he had recently seen Beyoncé do. He felt as high as a kite. Excitement was running though his veins like wildfire. He felt he could go on forever. It was party time for the bold and boisterous.

In the meantime his trolley filled with stuff and he hopped and skipped himself to the tills. When he got there someone touched his arm.

‘Are you on something, mister? Because if you are can I get some of it too?’

He laughed. The girl behind him in the queue sniggered.

‘Ta-ta-ta-di-di-ta-too-toot, pa-ta-plok,’ he ended the music he heard and shook his hips to boot.

He paid up, unheeding of the hushed silence around him, and left the supermarket, still humming. When he reached his car and opened the boot to put his stuff away the high slowly petered out. His hips stopped swaying but the excitement still bubbled away under the surface. He closed the boot with a jaunty slam and gave it a final twirl.

‘That was so good,’ he beamed and sighed a contented sigh. ‘Haven’t had so much fun for a long time.’

Then he felt a twinge in his back and realised that too much swinging of hips makes Jackaboy a very sore boy. He rubbed his back and shook his head. Dancing. Of all things! Where did that come from, he wondered. Never knew I had it in me. He got in the car and drove home.

That had been number three.

Then, of course, followed all the other nudges that had the same feel and signature to them. Each time he had felt the same surge of energy. The feeling that he had to do something with all this energy. So unusual for him. Laid-back lad that he was he would never expend an ounce of energy on anything if he could avoid it. Of course he wouldn’t. Let’s face it, he was born lazy and lived lazy. He didn’t take pride in the fact. Of course he didn’t. Laziness wasn’t exactly a virtue but there you were. That’s the way he was. Now he found himself bubbling with all this unwonted energy and practically raring to go and do something with it. If only he knew what that something was he could go and do it. Get rid of it soon that was and get back to being lazy fast.

That’s what he had thought. He grimaced. That was not how it had panned out, had it now. He gritted his teeth. No, of course it hadn’t. He had taken it all in his laid-back lazy stride and let it happen without blinking an eye.

The whole kit and caboodle had finally come to a head when that damned woodpecker had started knocking on the backdoor. Or to be more precise when a woodpecker had pecked on a dead branch somewhere in the woods nearby.

---

The drum roll reverberated in the quiet afternoon air. Distantly at first but every time it repeated it seemed to be getting nearer until it felt like it hammered directly into his brain. Knock knock on wood, he thought and touched the top of his head. When it came again he realised the sound came from a hammering on the backdoor.

He quickly opened the door and there it was: a blue gift box with a bright yellow ribbon. He picked it up and looked around. There was no one to be seen which did not surprise him as there was no back entry to his garden. Puzzled he turned the box around and around and even tentatively sniffed at it before he took the ribbon off and opened it.

Inside it was a purple card. With an invite. To a party. From Seth.

His eyebrows raised right up to under his hairline as he read the message again and again.

Who the hell was this Seth? Did he know a Seth? He racked his brain but no it did not ring a bell.

BaB, it said. Red dress. Beau tie. Beau as in beau?? What the heck was a beau tie?! And then red dress. Dress in red. That was novel, definitely novel. The whole thing spelled weird and it smelled weird too. Not that he was averse to weird but only provided it was wonderful too.

He sniffed at the card and detected a faint perfume. Manly, musky. Somewhat like the one he used himself. Good man, Seth, he thought. He read the message again. The wording was few and terse, the lettering done with a silver pen. He liked silver pens. Used them himself occasionally.

Time: now.

Place: at the gate. Holler if you want in.

What gate. He didn’t have a gate!

Of course you do, you twit! It’s right in front of your face. Look!

The words appeared on the card out of nowhere. He looked and blow me down if there wasn’t a gate. A small lone gate painted in eye-watering red stood right there, on its own right, in the middle of his garden. His mouth dropped.

He looked from the card to the gate and back. He read the instructions again. Red dress, beau tie, BaB.

More words appeared.

What are you waiting for? It’s party time. Not shy are you? Scoot!

He dropped the card on the kitchen counter and scooted. He nipped up the stairs and rifled through his wardrobe looking for anything red. A scarf was all he could find. It would have to do. As for the tie, beau meant pretty didn’t it. He selected one he thought would fit the bill. It had watermelons on it but what the heck, they were red too weren’t they and he liked it. Matched the scarf. Mucho beau. Then he went back downstairs to his drinks cupboard and grabbed a bottle of Bordeaux. Red too. Feeling all colour co-ordinated and happy with himself he picked up the invite and walked up to the gate. There was no one to be seen. The gate was what it was. A gate. He walked around it and marvelled. A folly in his own garden! Briefly he wondered how it had got there, then shrugged and called out ‘Seth’. Nothing happened. He looked at the card. The word ‘holler’ stood out in capitals this time, marked in red and underlined.

He scraped his throat and hollered ‘Seth’ at the top of his voice.

Instantly the gate opened and a petite blond woman appeared on the other side. Youngish. Pretty, he thought, appreciating the view. She held out her hand for him to hand over the card. He handed it to her.

‘Took your time, didn’t you,’ she scolded and waved the card in his face. ‘It does say ‘now’ doesn’t it?’

She produced a pair of dimples to show she meant him no harm. She tucked the card down her cleavage. He followed it with appreciative eyes, then recovered himself.

‘Seth?’ he said tentatively.

The woman guffawed.

‘Do I look like a Seth to you?’

‘No, no, of course not but-’

‘I’m just here to show you in. Gatepost duty, so to speak. Did you bring a bottle then?’

He showed her the bottle of plonk. She took it from him, produced a corkscrew out of nowhere, took out the cork and emptied the bottle there and then. The soil slurped up the wine greedily.

‘Just the bottle would have done, pal. No need to fill it up.’

‘But that’s, that’s-’

Flabbergasted he thought of the price he had paid for it.

‘Cat’s piss,’ she completed the sentence for him, ‘but it’s good for fertilizing the soil.’

She tucked the empty bottle securely under her arm. Then she looked him up and down.

‘Where’s the dress then?’

‘What you mean?’ he said puzzled and pointed out the scarf and the melons.

‘They’re red, aren’t they? And that wine was red too,’ he added a bit snarky.

She plucked the card from her cleavage and turned it over for him to read.

‘It does say ‘dress’ there, doesn’t it?’

He just nodded.

‘Well then, where’s the dress?’

She gave him another critical once-over.

‘I don’t see one.’

‘Don’t have one,’ he said peeved. ‘I’m not a woman, am I! I’m a man and men don’t wear dresses.’

‘More’s the shame,’ she said, showing her dimples again. ‘It would have looked well on you. At least the tie is there. Nice tie, by the way.’

‘Glad I did something right there,’ he muttered, somewhat mollified.

‘You don’t follow instructions too well, do you.’

She put the bottle down, tore up the card and threw the pieces up in the air. He followed them with his eyes as they dropped like petals in