September 2020 Winner
Pomegranates
by Jo Skinner
Pomegranate seeds were strewn like glistening rubies in the dewy grass. Edie planted herself firmly in front of the tree, chest heaving, chin stuck out defiantly. The tree surgeons stood uncertainly at the dilapidated front gate. The dense branches hung low clinging like fists to the seductive fruit.
‘The tree stays,’ she said firmly, arms crossed over her substantial bosom, feet apart as though daring them to confront her. Edie could still see Bridget running outside in her red pinafore, auburn plaits askew, swinging on the front gate till it hung drunkenly off one hinge.
The tall slim workman with skin the colour of dark honey took off his hat reverently and stepped forward. ‘Ma’am,’ he ventured politely, holding the hat over his breast as though he was about to propose. ‘The tree is right on the boundary. When they built the original fence they made an error. The tree is sitting on the neighbor’s property and they want it gone to build a wall.’
Edie’s house resembled her. Faded and tired, paint peeling like sunburn after weathering a hundred summers, a gutter hanging forlornly like the limb of a sleeping vagrant with the cobwebbed front window glass like a bloodshot eye after one too many sherries. She pulled herself to her full height. Blast the new neighbors and the mayhem they caused when they bulldozed the old house down and changed everything. ‘This house has been my home for fifty two years. The fence has always been right there.’
The other fellow, thickset and impatient, set up the ropes, ladder, and saws. Edie felt a turbulent flood of emotions in her chest. She could still hear Bridget’s angelic five year old voice at the Lord Mayor’s Christmas function so long ago, clear as a star. Afterwards, they had brought home one of the shiny, red fruits used in the display. They had never seen the like before and Charlie had planted it right there at the gate.
She glanced at the thickset fellow who sat resigned on his esky. He pulled out a sandwich and took a bite. She watched as the mayonnaise oozed and dripped onto his fingers before landing on the dirt below in a grey splodge.
‘Maybe we can talk about it.’ The young bloke had a soft, barely detectable accent. ‘I had a pomegranate tree just like this back home.’ He bent and picked up a red fruit from the ground, its belly bursting with seeds like red teardrops. ‘Home?’ ‘I left Afghanistan when I was ten.’ Ten, thought Edie. The age Bridget was when she died, two years after the diagnosis. Edie slid to the ground, her tired body defeated holding her head between her aching, deformed fingers, unable to hide her dismay. ‘We sprinkled our daughter’s ashes here,’ she whispered.
He nodded, his long tapered fingers holding the fruit as though it was a precious jewel. He bent down with the fluidity of youth and handed it to her.