You have to make your own fun in the countryside. With so little to do, people follow strange paths. They carve frogs out of fallen tree branches. Spend their life savings reviving a battered steam crane. Organise regional tiddlywinks leagues. Whatever fills the time in a land of owl calls and a lack of pavements.
My neighbor got into garden ornaments. This was not the abstract elegance of Henry Moore, or the calm majesty of a water feature, but a minefield of plastic tat. Gnomes with their bottoms out. Dancing foxes with chipped painted fur. A pair of pigs in wellington boots. The lawn equivalent of cheap service station food.
The centerpiece of his collection was Bonki the Scarecrow. I do not know where the name came from. Bonki sat in place on a plastic stick, arms stitched with thick yellow cotton, his almost two dimensional hat on ribbon hair. Different seasons meant a change of outfits. Tinsel round his neck for Christmas. Bunny ears at Easter. A clown nose for Halloween. All good fun when there is nothing else to do, and the news elsewhere is so grim.
The game changer was living on the same street as the church. A stream of parishioners walked past Bonki every Sunday afternoon, Many took a moment to laugh at his latest costume. They took their amusement to the post office, and the pub. Someone said 'you will never believe what Bonki is up to today' in the newsagents, and genuine laughter followed from every customer.
Then people left out sandwiches by the front gate. Glasses of squash, and slices of birthday cake. An article appeared in the local newsletter voicing concerns about Bonki getting cold in the winter. Next Sunday the crowd split between the pews of the church, and the pavement near my house. Bonki had a velvet heart on his jacket for Valentine’s day. My neighbour kept inside.
We did not focus much on the world outside our village. Current events never hit home, until A-Day. Like elsewhere, the explosions broke most of our windows. All the cities were long gone. But around here, a decent chunk of us survived. Bonki managed to survive too. He stood alone in the garden amongst the smears of plastic animals.
Most of us kept indoors. Not much food remained. Clean water was even more scarce. We all knew time was limited. Previously I would have assumed the obvious congregation spot was the church. The ancient stonework still remained relatively intact.
But the shivering crowd gathered in the blasted remains of my neighbour’s garden.They kneeled in front of Bonki, heads bowed. A boy with a pus soaked bandage over one eye placed a saucer of broken biscuits at the bottom of the pole. A former postmaster missing her right hand stared at me with pure hated. I understood the phrase ‘non-believer.’
The first drops of grey snow fell. Bonki would need his scarf soon.
Line: He stood alone in the garden amongst the smears of plastic animals.
