The Old Cart in the Woodland

I had found it some time ago in a woodland. A small covered old cart, which had once had a door, rotting away. Its axle lay some feet apart in the undergrowth.

It made me think of carts in which prisoners were once taken to gaols or execution sites.

It was filthy inside. Inside and around it there were empty beer cans and plastic shopping bags.

Brian said: “Heather Atterbury came to my door, white as a sheet, saying she had seen something horrible, could I come with her?”

Someone was lying in the cart, dead apparently.

“He wasn’t dead but he was a mess,” said Brian. “We got him to hospital. Early stages of endocarditis, a bacterial infection of the heart valves, probably arising from his complete lack of dental care and an awful lifestyle.”

I know who he was. A Dutch barn had burned a few years ago and its skeleton still stood. They said it was arson, to get the insurance.

Brian said: “No-one has any use for him any more so he gets very depressed. It builds, he binges, wakes up, gets home in the morning guilty, but shame gives him a purpose, gets him going again. His place is awful, newspapers covering broken panes, but he has a system – he gets himself food, keeps himself going. So you could say his binges keep him alive. He is probably not aware of what is going on…”

What was Heather doing there? Looking for wild flowers apparently. She takes them back, presses them, makes floral paper for origami.