On A Monday Morning

by Colin Galbraith

Walter Harris turned off the lawnmower engine and sat down on a bench. Other
than a few blackbirds scattered on the branches of nearby trees, he
represented the sole existence of life in the cemetery.

Winter was hinting an imminent arrival with a chilling wind, and motivating
Walter to prepare the garden areas fully, so they could last through until
spring. He looked down and noticed a small black book perched against the
base of a nearby headstone, and bent down and picked it up.

It resembled the headstone itself, with a black background and gold
lettering, the word 'Dictionary' inscribed on the cover. The spine creaked
as he gently opened it, the faded pages flapping in the breeze. On the
inside cover was written a message: "Archie - to help with your crosswords.
Love Mary xxx."

He flicked through the rest of the book, but there was nothing else of
interest. It was merely a simple dictionary, the only odd thing about it
being the location he found it.

Walter placed the dictionary back where he found it, and noted the grave
belonged to Mary Keller, the earth over her coffin still as fresh as it had
been when she had been buried two weeks previous. The headstone indicated
she had left behind a husband, Archie, who loved her very much.

His feet rested, he restarted the lawnmower, and carried on with the
trimming the grass.

                                                    * * *

That evening, Walter sat by the log fire in his cottage with a cup of tea
and Beethoven playing in the background. He listened to the wind battering
the single-pained window of his home, his mind drifting to the small black
dictionary he had found earlier in the day.

He watched fire shadows dance on the wall, and appreciated the heat and
smell from the fireplace. He got up and stoked the coal, went over to the
window and parted the curtains, peering out into the darkness of the
cemetery to where Mary Keller was buried.

Winter was moving in fast, thought Walter, and the dictionary was still out
there, unprotected, with the full force of the season still to hit.
Everything in the cemetery was under his care, which included, he reasoned,
the objects left within it. The small dictionary spoke of so many unanswered
questions in his mind: was it more then just a book? It must be, for
someone.

Walter threw his overcoat on over his pyjamas, replaced his slippers with
his shoes, and grabbed a small polythene bag from the kitchen. He left the
cottage and headed out into the cemetery, sheltered little from the elements
by his coat.

He approached Mary Keller's grave and put the dictionary inside the bag,
twisted the top into a length and tied a knot in it. It had started to rain
now, and the sleet stung as it pelted his face. He placed the dictionary
back on the ground and wedged it between a rock and the base of the
gravestone. There was no way he was going to let anything happen to it. He
stood back and admired his work, and thought about what he was doing. What
did the dictionary's presence mean, why it had been left there, and why did
it matter so much to him that it be kept safe when there were so many other
unprotected objects lying around?

He shook his head and returned to his cottage, brewed up another cup of tea,
and re-stoked the fire.

                                               * * *

Walter left the cottage to start a new season of work, just has he always
did on the first Monday of every Spring. He wanted to tend to the new grass
and embryonic flowerbeds early, to give them the best chance of shining
throughout what promised to be another long summer.

He passed Mary Keller's grave and paused, looked down at the dictionary
still lying between the headstone and the rock, exactly where it had
remained all winter. It seemed so long ago since he had wrapped it up, and
hid it from the fierce winter elements in the bosom of the dead woman's
grave.

He stared at the small insignificant book, and wondered why it had grown to
mean so much to him over the past couple of months.

A noise startled him, and he turned around.

"So you're the one?" the man said.

Disturbed by the man's silent approach, Walter stuttered a response.
"S-sorry?"

"You're the one who's been interfering with my dictionary."

"Oh," said Walter, surprised by his own embarrassment. "Yes, I suppose I
am."

The man looked at Walter with suspicion. He wore an angry face under his
cap, and his scarf blew lazily around his neck and over his raincoat. He
kept his hands hidden in his trouser pockets, and leaned forward slightly as
though about to keel over.

"Why?" he said, his voice suddenly tinged with hurt. "Why did you feel the
need to touch what isn't yours?"

"I'm sorry, sir," said Walter, his head lowered in shame. "I saw the book
while I was cutting the grass there, and I thought it might get ruined by
the weather. I sealed it in a bag. Then I thought the winds might get hold
of it so I placed it under that there rock. Keep it safe, you see."

"Do you do that with all graveside ornaments?"

"No, sir. Just yours."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It intrigued me. It was such a strange thing to find on a
grave, sir, I knew it must have meant something special to the person there,
that it belonged to, so I wanted to make sure nothing happened to the
memory. I'm sorry if I over-stepped the mark, sir. I meant no harm. No harm
at all."

The man curled his face with anger. "You had no right!"

Walter felt exposed and awkward. "I only - "

The man gritted his teeth. "You didn't have to do any of that," he said.
"You shouldn't have done any of that."

Walter struggled to speak. He had crossed into someone else's grief, and the
guilt was smothering him like waves of salty water washing over open wounds.

"You're Archie, aren't you?" he said, finally.

The man nodded.

"The dictionary was for an Archie, that's how I knew."

"Very good, Sherlock," the man said. "And have you figured out why I placed
a dictionary on my wife's grave?"

"No sir, I have not."

"Not that clever then, are you," said Archie, and turned away.

Walter followed him towards the exit, driven to find the answer why the book
had crossed into his life with such persistence, and become his sole
obsession throughout the winter.

"Mister Keller," shouted Walter. "I must know - why a dictionary?"

"None of your business, Gardener."

"But Mister Keller, I tend your wife's grave there, as I do all the others,
see? I keep the grass short and ensure they keep their dignity and peace. I
keep this whole place tidy, and not for much either. I only had the best of
intentions when I exceeded my responsibilities. Only the best. And I assure
you, my intentions were borne purely from respect. I'm telling you the
truth, sir. I'm so sorry."

Walter held up the dictionary, looked into Archie's eyes, and saw him
capitulate. He knew he had reached him.

"My wife's time had not yet come," said Archie. "She still had years left
and it was snatched prematurely from her - from us. It was so unfair. She
gave me that dictionary years ago as a gift, because I constantly bothered
her for the correct spelling of words when I did my crosswords. I found I
relied on it less and less as my spelling improved, though, until I was able
to complete them with no trouble at all. I stuck it away in a cupboard
somewhere and forgot about it."

"I don't understand," said Walter.

"I dug it out after our final visit to the hospital. I could far less
pronounce the disease that was killing her let alone spell it. I tried to
find an explanation in the dictionary, tried to discover what it was that
was killing her - in plain English - but it couldn't help me. When she died,
I left the dictionary on her grave. It was useless to me after that."

"I'm sorry," said Walter.

"So am I," said Archie, and attempted a smile. "Thank you for what you did.
I'm sorry I shouted at you."

"Forget about it," said Walter, and held out his arm, and the two men shook
hands.

                                                * * *

May arrived, and on the first Monday morning of the month, Walter began work
in the cemetery gardens as usual. He put on his gloves and pulled the lawn
mower out of his hut, walked over to the first plot of grass, and began to
mow.

Soon he arrived at Mary Keller's grave. There was fresh grass over the plot,
and he switched off the motor to take a closer look. There were no flowers
or fuss, just fresh grass with the dictionary in place as it had been for
the past few months.

The name, 'Archie' stood out from the dark headstone, freshly engraved in
bright gold letters. He took the dictionary back to his cottage and placed
it inside a small box of keepsakes. He would look at it again, but only on
the first Monday of each month.

Colin Galbraith is the Chief Editor and Publisher of The Ranfurly Review, and an Associate Editor at The Scruffy Dog Review. He has published short stories, poems, non-fiction articles, and reviews, in both print and online publications as well as several e-books. His novel, Hunting Jack, was serialised in 2004, and his first chapbook, Fringe Fantastic, was published to critical acclaim in 2005. His second collection of poetry, Poolside Poetry, was published in 2007. His website can be found at: www.colingalbraith.co.uk