Last September my husband, Mike, and I were walking by the Serpentine in Hyde Park. The wildfowl as ever, fascinated me. A crane, wading at the water's edge, flew a short distance on as we approached, making a strange, loud call, a most impressive sound and one I hadn't heard previously. We stood still, admiring the bird, its long neck and long legs giving it grace and elegance. It is a bird I have rarely come across so I stood and watched it, admiring its soft grey plumage.
Two swans sailed serenely along, their feathers puffed out so that they resembled ornamental boats gliding across a stage in a production of Swan Lake. Suddenly, one of them rose into the air and flew back towards Kensington Gardens. We watched, mesmerised. Approaching the bridge across the lake, the swan flew over rather than under, before veering left and disappearing behind the trees.
The companion sailed on alone for some time, appearing oblivious to all that was happening around it, but eventually it, too, took to the air, and followed the same flight path. The whole scene was peaceful and relaxing in spite of the stifling heat, unusual for that time of year. I felt happy and content and in tune with my surroundings, walking with slow, measured steps to match the movements of the crane and swans. My normal fevered life had slowed down to a tranquil pace.
As we progressed, the crane was maintaining the same distance between him and us. We could hear another rasping noise in the distance and we wondered what strange water bird we would find further on.
We soon identified the sound of a chainsaw at work. A lumberjack in harness and helmet was up in a weeping willow by the restaurant at the water's edge. He was cutting the upper branches. A companion on the ground was using another chainsaw to make the branches smaller before feeding them into a shredder. A discordant note had crept in to the peaceful atmosphere.
As we stood and watched, I found myself wanting to weep. Soon, my thoughts turned to death. That tree looked green and healthy, unlike the parched brown earth around. Not a single blade of green grass had survived the long weeks of heat wave, yet the tree was being deliberately cut down. I wondered why. Was it being sacrificed to make room for some addition to the restaurant?
One minute, the branches were alive and part of the trunk. Then they were being severed, one by one and fed into a machine from which they emerged as dust. Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.
I had read on a plaque that the Serpentine was created for Queen Charlotte. I pictured her walking there to gain comfort and relief from her unhappy marriage. Was she, as I was, fascinated by the wild fowl? Did she achieve a similar sense of peace and serenity? What discord shattered her brief spell of happiness?
A deep gloom hung over me. It was as if a vague shadow had flitted down from the cloudless blue sky, bringing with it a chill in spite of the relentless heat of the day. I thought of the people known to me who had died young. The first death I remember was that of my paternal grandmother. I was seven years old when she came to stay with us. One night we were taken into the bedroom where she lay as if asleep. We were told to say goodbye to Granny.
"Goodbye, Granny," we chanted obediently.
What was going through our young minds? Was Granny going back to her own home? What left a lasting impression on me was the sight of my father kneeling by the bed, weeping, his head bent towards his mother. In my childish book Fathers didn't cry. It was rather frightening and very puzzling. I recall the atmosphere as being solemn. How or when Granny left the house wasn't an issue. Death was a meaningless concept in our young minds.
I was 15 years old when I first came face to face with the finality of death. A newly found friend was struck down with meningitis and he was dead within a week. Just before my 21st birthday my youngest sister fell victim to the same disease. I remember kneeling by my bed and crying buckets of tears over what seemed like many hours. I wept till I became exhausted and then I could weep no more as I settled into a dazed state of severe shock. She was 10 years old, the same age as the two girls murdered in Soham. Somehow, it defies all laws of Creation for lovely 10-year-old girls to be snatched away so cruelly.
As I stood in Hyde Park and watched the sawdust emerging from the shredder, I wondered where it would end up. In the soil, nourishing new life? Is this what our death will be? Is this the ending to life?
Why did the sight of the tree surgery have such a dramatic effect on me? We had recently paid a tree surgeon to cut down five trees in our garden and my only reaction was relief that our house was brighter and opened up to the sun.
Memories locked away in my subconscious were rising to the surface, painful memories I didn't want to dwell on. Old unresolved questions presented themselves afresh to my mind. Why did that young man with everything to live for take his grandfather's shotgun and blow his own brains out? How does one begin to offer comfort to his friend? I recalled so many similar tragedies among my daughter's friends and acquaintances. There was the young boy about to leave school and head off to university with so much promise for the future. He died on the road having been knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, a senseless ending of a young life. There was the young woman who fell from a railway bridge and died instantly, full of life one moment and gone the next. These and so many other tragedies, pushed to the back of my memory, were coming to mind that day.
I relived the day my daughter rang to tell me about her accident on Mt Everest and about her friend being swept away to an instant death in an avalanche. It was something I tried not to think about, how they retrieved his body and buried him under a pile of rocks. I wasn't there but I was affected by the horror of the tragedy. "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls."
So many images flashed through my mind in a short space of time. I recalled the sudden deaths of those close to me. I felt the sadness of unkept promises, of failure to achieve reconciliation, of final farewells unspoken. I knew I had to pull myself together and move on. However, the memory of the weeping willow, which weeps no more, keeps returning at odd moments to disturb my mind. Why?
Looking back on 2003, I recognise it as a milestone in my life, a time when the reality of my age struck home. At the age of 75, I have well exceeded the biblical allotment of three score years and 10. I don't normally worry about this but suddenly I began to notice deterioration in my eyesight and hearing. Perhaps however hard I try to ignore the passing years, they are there at the back of my mind waiting to be roused by some trigger such as the falling tree. Most of the time I am too busy to think about my age but occasionally it is brought home to me that I am an elderly woman in spite of how I feel about it. Twenty years ago I lay in hospital, close to death and the only thing I was aware of was how ill I felt. Imminent death held no fears for me.
Now, I don't want to die just yet but I know I will have no say in deciding the hour or the day. I intend to go on living my life to the full for as long as possible. One thing I am certain about is that I do not want anyone deciding it is time for me to go.
I am looking forward to our next trip to London and to seeing the camellias in Kensington Gardens, the daffodils in Green Park and the cygnets and ducklings in Hyde Park. I shall probably be unable to identify where the weeping willow stood. The grass will be fresh and green and the signs of spring will lift my heart high. I hope my mind will focus on births, not deaths, on the babies expected by relatives and friends over the coming months.
We cannot bring back the past. Nor can we predict the future. The present, however, is ours, and too precious to waste.