"It's so grey outside," said Mr Strange.
Down the busy high street as cars splashed through puddles and people rushed about, a young boy caught Mr Strange's eye - he appeared to be sliding along on the wet paths without any effort, not needing to walk.
"Agreed." Mr Strange sighed as the floating boy was lost in a crowd of hurried people on the high street. He left the window, returning to the shredding machine. “I hope we’ve tidied up enough.”
*
"Stephen Cecil Smith, will you get a move on?"
Stephen hated it mum when is mum used his ‘Sunday name’. She pulled him by the arm as he slid through another puddle, catching only a glimpse of his blond ruffled hair and round face reflected in the water. "I wish your father hadn't bought you those stupid shoes - surely the wheels let in the water!"
Stephen’s feet were a little damp, but he was more interested in a pigeon that was limping along the kerb. The bird only had one foot. On its other leg there was a stump where a foot had once been.
“Hurry up, Stephe-!” snapped his mum. She hadn’t noticed the pigeon or the newspaper seller she now crashed right into.
The bird flew away. It joined lots of other pigeons across the busy road, in an alley where the big stores kept their bins. An old man with wild red hair was feeding the flock from a paper bag. Stephen was amazed to see the normally nervous birds landing on his hands, quite tamely. As his mum continued her heated words with the newspaper seller, Stephen stared intently at the pigeon man. He looked like he might be homeless because of the torn clothes he wore, but he also looked content at feeding the pigeons. Then without warning, the man looked across at Stephen, lifted his hand and waved.
“Come on, Stephen! Now!” his mum had finished arguing.
Stephen cautiously waved back at the old man and turned to skate through the puddles after him mum again.
*
The cloudy brass plaque on the wall read: “Strange, Strange & Gardener – est.
1807”.
“This is it,” said Stephen’s mum. “Lots of stairs – that’s what I always remember from being a young girl.”
They had reached the far end of the high street and come to a line of old terraced buildings that towered into the sky. Stephen peered up at them and noticed all of the window ledges apart from those of Strange, Strange & Gardener had small clumps of metal spikes on them, like patches of long grass, only deadlier. He thought of the pigeon with the stumped foot again. Then it began to rain.
“Well, I always found the best way to tackle these stairs when I’d come with your granddad was to take a deep breath…” his mum paused as she inhaled deeply. Her jet black wavy hair moved here and there with the falling raindrops. She clasped Stephen’s hand tightly. “…and then race up them and don’t stop until you get to the third floor!”
Stephen sped up the wet steps with his mum, through the large open door into a small hallway. They continued stomping up the wooden staircase inside, laughing at each other all the way…
By the time they got to the third floor Stephen’s mum had to sit down on the top step of the staircase to catch their breath. Stephen stared past her at a tall old gentleman dressed in a posh but dull suit that matched the weather outside. The man looked over his half-moon glasses at them. His bald head shook and the white hair above his ears twitched slightly.
“Mr Strange!” gasped Stephen’s mum as she turned to see the old man.
He took out a small pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Prompt as ever, I see, Mrs Smith.”
“Ms Smith,” replied Stephen’s mum, getting to her feet. “I’ve come to see why haven’t you written to my… husband yet?”
Stephen could hear a fluttering noise from behind a door to the back of Mr Strange which was marked “Private”. He looked at the frosted glass in the door and thought he could see a figure jumping up and down as if frantically trying to catch something.
“Come right in and we’ll discuss this further.” said Mr Strange.
The old man led them past the frosted glass door to an adjoining office with large filing cabinets and two small desks, a window looked out onto the high street and there was a heavy-looking door which Stephen knew must lead to the room where the fluttering had come from, but the noise had now stopped.
“Now, let’s see… ‘S’… ‘Smith’…” Mr Strange open one of the filing cabinet draw
s and thumbed through lots of papers.
“Atchoo!” came a voice from behind the heavy door as it swung open. A younger man appeared who was dressed in a lighter suit than Mr Strange but very much the same apart from that. Stephen noticed a black feather in the young man’s neatly parted brown hair.
“Bless you, Mr Strange,” said Stephen’s mum.
Stephen looked from the old man to the younger man, frowning.
“They’re father and son.” smiled his mum.
“Can’t you tell?” sniffed the young Mr Strange waving a hand down his suit. “The only difference is, while I like to sneeze, Father likes to snooze!”
Stephen’s mum rolled her eyes. “Mr Strange Junior, meet my son, Stephen.”
“A pleasure!” The young Mr Strange looked down at the boy’s feet. “You… glided across the pavement like… you could fly. But, how?”
“Easy!” replied Stephen catching his right foot with his hand and revealing the wheels under his trainer. “Heelys! See?”
“Mr Strange…” came the older man’s voice. “Could you assist me with Ms Smith’s files?”
“Of course, Mr Strange.” replied the younger man.
Stephen’s mum went over to a pile of magazines by the window. Stephen tried to look into the next room, past the heavy door which was slightly ajar.
“Here we are!” announced old Mr Strange, appearing to nod towards the heavy door.
The young Mr Strange pushed it shut. “I’ll have my… secretary next door sort this in a jiffy!
“Do help yourselves to tea or coffee while we deal with this, Ms Smith.” added Mr Strange Senior, and both he and his son went into the adjoining room.
Stephen wheeled around the floor of the office trying not to feel puzzled by the other room. But then the fluttering noise began again and as his mum was distracted by a teapot, he wheeled out into the hallway.
He crept to the door with the frosted glass and knelt down to look through the keyhole. He could see very little but could hear muffled speech from inside, so he put his ear to the keyhole instead.
“Be reasonable,… Beatrice!” said the younger Mr Strange and then he sneezed again.
“Would you please stop giving those things names!” said the older Mr Strange.
“Just one more letter today, that’s all, then you can go home!”
There was a crashing and Stephen leapt sideways. The door swung open and out flew two blackbirds. Stephen was glued to the wall.
“Now what do we do?” came Mr Strange Junior’s voice from inside the room.
“We do it the old fashioned way.” replied Mr Strange Senior and the door closed.
Stephen ran after the blackbirds. On the next landing down he saw them perched on the banister that led to the first floor. He moved slowly but they flew off down the stairs and so he ran after them again - they turned towards an open fire escape at the back of the building. He sped after the blackbirds, swinging round from the bottom stair but his Heelys suddenly took over, carrying him uncontrollably towards the backdoor.
He toppled out of the doorway and onto… soft grass. He looked up and saw blue sky and wisps of white cloud overhead. Around him were trees and flowers of all kinds, as well as birds who were singing merrily, and,… sitting on an old wooden bench, a young man with blazing red hair.
The man was dressed in a sandy jacket and brown cords. A spade rested against his knee. And then the garden seemed to fall silent – all of the birds had stopped singing.
“Don’t worry,” chuckled the young man. “They’re just shocked to see you. I, on the other hand, am very glad to meet you.”
Stephen approached the man and sat down on the bench. “Is… this all yours?”
“In a way.” replied the man. “But only because it’s the place I like to be most in the world. I’m the Gardener, by the way.”
“I’m Stephen. Stephen Smith.”
“It’s got a good sound to it, your name.” replied the Gardener.
“I don’t like it much.” sighed Stephen. He looked at the bench they were sitting on. It was made from the trunk of an old tree. There were dozens of names etched on it – all with “Strange” as their surname.
“The garden really belongs to the two men who own this building.” said the Gardener.
“They seem quite odd to be honest.” said Stephen slowly. “I think they were asking two blackbirds to… write my mum’s letter.”
Just then five pigeons glided down from the skies above. Stephen watched their descent and noticed two of them had stumped feet like the one he’d seen on the street earlier. But then,… somehow,… as they all landed next to the bench, every one of them had two feet to walk on.
“What… kind of place is this?” asked Stephen, wide-eyed.
“Can you keep a secret?” replied the Gardener, not waiting for Stephen’s answer. “There’s something magical about this space. And time is of no consequence here. A few generations after Strange & Strange Solicitors first opened, one over-worked Strange man who was something of a dreamer whispered out here, 'This work’s for the birds', and he began to plant trees out here as a refuge for all Strange men and birds alike. In return, the Stranges’ feathered friends secretly worked inside while the garden flourished outside. Soon, the firm became 'Strange, Strange & Gardener' because they needed someone to look after this place of solitude full-time."
“So,… these birds… can actually type letters?” asked Stephen staring at the pigeons.
“Yes,” chuckled the Gardener. “In fact, those finches up there are particularly good at filing.”
“Stephen Cecil Smith!” came his mother’s voice from inside the building. “Where have you got to this time?”
“‘Cecil’?” said the Gardener. “You didn’t tell me your middle name before.”
“That’s because I hate it,” replied Stephen. “But it was my grandfather’s name and his before him.”
“You see this tree sapling?” asked the Gardener kneeling by a small but gloriously green sprout of a tree. “It has leaves joined straight to its stalk, each called a ‘sessile’. This tree may look tiny and weak now but through its leaves it will thrive here.”
Stephen wasn’t sure what to say except goodbye and he climbed the steps to the building. He looked back into the garden as he reached the door. The young Gardener stood by his bench and waved while birds flew all about him. Stephen waved back and closed the door. His mum was standing at the front entrance.
“I know this was boring for you today,” sighed his mum. “But there was no need to wander off for so long – I’ve been looking for you for a good half-hour!”
Stephen frowned. He was sure he had only been in the hidden garden for ten minutes at most. And then he smiled, wheeling out to the front steps. “Actually, it wasn’t that boring at all…”
*
Mr Strange Junior looked out of the window onto the high street as Stephen and his mum left in the continuing rain. Mr Strange Senior sat slumped in his chair, snoring lightly. The heavy door of their office opened and in walked an old man with deep red hair, dressed in tattered clothes. He joined the younger Strange man at the window.
“Do you think the boy has any idea he’s to be the next Gardener?” asked Mr Strange Junior.
The Gardener didn’t answer, he just smiled and gazed at the pigeons sitting contently on the window ledge outside.
(word count: 2,093)
