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Every year in the spring, when all the world is a-bloom, the garden becomes a riot of colors. For instance, the large tree at the bottom of the garden has bronze-brown leaves and a dark-green, mossy trunk. It is covered in a blossom of tiny, bright yellow flowers. They fall from the tree in their thousands and cover the ground in a lush tapestry of yellow gold.
Like a child in autumn, kicking up leaves, Gunk runs around and throws up enough of a flurry to make the carpet move like the waves of a sea.
I can always see her, looking out on the garden from my kitchen window.
She’s has so much fun with this, that she doesn’t come into the house for tea for several days. She just grabs her cookies and, stuffing them into her mouth, rushes of again to play.
This spring, after four or five days, her game changed. Instead of picking up, throwing about and kicking around, Gunk started making shapes from the tiny yellow flowers.
I had a lot of work to do that day, so I only saw her when I was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Each time, Gunk made more elaborate forms than the time before.
It started with a ball. Then a cape she could actually wear. Next the cape became so long and wide, she had trouble making turns as she trotted about. The last thing I saw her make was almost as large as a cat, and roughly the same shape.
I didn’t get to see what else she made, as I had to go to town, but I was sure she’d tell me all about it when she’d finally come into the house for tea again.
On my way back from town, two streets from my house, I saw the mailman and the police constable. In itself, this wasn’t so remarkable. Both of them spend a large part of the day walking the streets. The town isn’t that big and they run into each on an almost daily basis. I’ve seen them talking or casually exchanging gossip often enough. But this time, somehow, it drew my attention.
Maybe it was the fact that the mailman’s face was rather pale, as if he ‘d just had a bit of a shock. Or maybe it was because he was sitting on the ground, his mail bag askew, his uniform rather disheveled. Or just maybe because the ground around the both of them was covered with familiar looking yellow flowers…
Whatever it was, I quickly walked over to them and, after greeting the constable, asked him what was going on.
“I don’t right know”, the constable replied, with a inquisitive look. “When I turned the corner, I swore I saw him”, with a nod to the mailman, “being dragged of by a fellow pulling on his mail bag. But when I got here, the fellow’d disappeared.”
Looking around, the constable lifted his cap to wipe his forehead with his arm. “He must’ave run pretty fast to get away like that” he mumbled to himself.
As we helped the mailman up from the ground, the constable asked him “Did you manage to get a good look at him?”
The mailman had a look somewhere between confusion and bewilderment “He didn’t ‘ave no face!” he blurted out.
“Wearing a mask, eh?” the constable responded, as we wiped the little yellow pedals of the mailman, “Kids these days. I don’t know what their coming to.”
The constable didn’t seem to be paying much attention. He kept looking at his surroundings in a slightly pensive fashion. “and he was cover’d in flowers!” the mailman garbled.
“Yes, you do seem to be covered in the stuff.” the constable replied as he turned to the radio clipped to his shoulder strap.
Whilst I was picking the last of the yellow flowers of the mailman, the police constable talked into his radio.
“Be on the lookout for a kid, wearing a jumpsuit. Bright yellow. Possibly wearing a mask.”
After giving some more instructions into his radio, the constable turned to us. The mailman still looked rather startled.
“He should be easy enough to spot, running around in that color! Well now,“ the constable continued, “Lets see if any thing’s gone missing, shall we?”
As the constable righted the mailman’s bag, the mailman’s look had gone from perplexed to merely befuddled. I left them both to it and I headed home.
There seemed to be a lot of little yellow flowers strewn around. It was almost as if there was a trail of flowers from the mailman to my house. This was a bit strange, as there aren’t any trees in the street. Must have been the wind at work, I told myself, quickening my pace.
When I got in, I went straight to the kitchen, with the idea of looking out of the window to see if I could spot Gunk. I didn’t have to bother, as she was sitting on the kitchen table, looking impatient.
“It’s about time you got back!” she scolded me, “I want some tea!”
When the kettle had boiled, I made tea, sat down at the kitchen table, and asked Gunk what she’d been up to.
“Oh… nothing much.” Gunk said, failing to look as innocent as she might have hoped. “Played around, went for a walk, you know.” She took a big bite out of her chocolate cookie and sat there, happily munching away.
Looking out of the kitchen window, I noticed that there seemed to be a lot less of those little yellow flowers laying about. Or was that just my imagination?
“Did anything interesting happen on your walk?” I casually asked.
“Not really” Gunk said, as she swallowed the last of her cookie and started on a new one. She was squirming in her seat. We were both quiet. She went through some more cookies. With each cookie she was squirming more, as if she was dying to tell me me something.
Just as I was pouring both of us another cup of tea, she shrieked: “I got a postcard!”
She rushed out of the door and immediately returned with a crumpled piece of paper.
“Look!” she said, “Its got my name on it and everything!”
On closer inspection, the piece of paper did indeed seem to be a postcard, albeit a rather tattered and worn specimen. It had Gunk’s name on it and a postage stamp but not much else. Judging from the postmark, it appeared to have been stamped and mailed months ago.
“Gunk,” I asked, probably failing to look as innocent as I had hoped, “how did you get this?”
“The same way you get yours,” Gunk responded with a tone of indignation, “from the mailman.”
“But it doesn’t have an address on it,” I carefully continued, “how would the mailman know where to post it?”
Gunk crossed her arms and looked up at my angrily. “I knew I was getting a postcard! I’ve been waiting for this for ever. Its not my fault that stupid man doesn’t know how to give it to me!”
She was stamping her right foot, as if emphasizing her words. With each stomp her hair stood more on edge and she looked more and more feral.
“You (stomp) get loads (stomp) and he never (stomp) brings me (stomp) any! (stomp)”
Her outburst done, Gunk settled her hair into place and calmly finished. “He didn’t feel like bringing me my mail, so I fetched it myself.” with one final, haughty look, she turned around and left.
Curious as I was, maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask Gunk who the postcard was from...