“Abandoned,” said Crisp, my aged companion, as we wandered around the old garden site. “Once it was someone’s pride and joy I sure,” she added.
There were lots of these places dotted around the countryside and Crisp became all melancholic whenever we came upon one.
“I was abandoned as a kid,” she said. She had that hangdog look on her face suggesting she was about to go back in time and happily take me with her.
“My father walked out on us when I was seven. Left my mum for the blonde bitch in the pub. At least that’s how mum always referred to her. Mum thought he’d come back but he never did. Moved down the coast and died in a bushfire one Christmas Day. Mum was both heartbroken and strangely satisfied at the time.”
We didn’t linger long instead took ourselves off the plant nursery where Crisp felt more at home.