Something had been calling him here. He didn’t have any recollection of collapsing, but he’d hoped that being here would remind him of what had happened. Of what had caused him to imagine a whole life with Nancy. He also hoped it would eradicate the version of events that kept replaying in his head. Ever since he’d been in hospital, this place had been calling him back.
Reaching his shed, a static sensation ran up Clive’s arm when he placed the key in the shed’s lock. It was excitement, he realised. It shot up and down his arm so quickly it made a shiver run along his spine and made him look round to see if anyone else was there.
There was no one. He was alone. He let the sensation that someone had walked over his grave wash over him, then entered his shed.
It was nice to get reacquainted with his striped canvas deck chair. He needed the rest. He had overestimated his fitness levels. The good thing about being in his chair again was that it was as cosy as a second skin. As soon as he settled himself down he felt bereft without his usual flask of tea to enjoy. It was another reminder that he wasn’t here under his usual set of circumstances. At least he had his bottle of water. He took a sip, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing felt the same any more. It was strange to feel that something was missing and know that mostly it was his memories. How was he supposed to rebuild the jigsaw if he didn’t know what pieces belonged?
At least the musty smell of his shed gave a comfort he’d not experienced at the hospital. It meant he was able to think a fraction clearer and that was why he was here. In the hope of finding some clarity.
It was dark now in the shed and no doubt the lingering light outside was vanishing. There was a torch here ready for him. Once he got a hold of the light, he inspected the corners of his old shed. At least this space was like an old friend. It was full of cobwebs and trinkets and tools and it was in desperate need of decluttering, but he was often too busy on the plot to worry about the mess in here.
In amongst his things, he had numerous recycled pill pots that he used to house little things like nails and screws, stacked up in cabinets. There were old tea towels strewn about that were now used as oil rags or cloths for cleaning mud off his tools. There were three pairs of wellies. There was all sorts of paraphernalia that he kept here, rather than at the house, to save Nancy accusing him of hoarding.
There she was again. As if he had a home with a wife. Everyone was telling him she didn’t exist. And yet she kept popping up in the cavern of his thoughts.
He glanced at the items again and tried to recall why he kept them here, aside from Nancy. It was because he liked to keep the house respectable. Still, the notion of Nancy lingered, giving him a headache he didn’t need. Not when he had miles to trek back to his current abode.
A note by his empty thermos flask caught his eye. It was a page taken from his allotment journal. He couldn’t recall having torn it out and yet he must have done. The writing was in his hand after all. He glanced at what had been so important it warranted vandalising his beloved book. In capital letters, he’d scrawled NEW ALLOTMENT HOLDER, going over the writing several times so it was bold. The information had clearly been important but it didn’t make sense. And yet it seemed significant. Glancing at the page one more time, checking there was no other information, Clive folded it and popped it away. He’d have to look in his journal to see if there was anything else there that would throw more light on the obscure message. There were new allotment holders all the time, many people only lasting a season before deciding it wasn’t for them.
Mulling over why he’d written the note, Clive closed his eyes and allowed himself to rest. It was nice to be in a cosy spot of his own, to sit and breathe for a while, taking in the familiar wood-stain scent of this space. He had