Goodbye, Miss Mackenzie

Watercolor illustration of Miss Mackenzie walking on a winding, red-earth path through the lush Indian hills towards a distant, hazy town shimmering in the heat. The sun beats down, casting dappled shadows through the dense foliage. She is carrying a worn, woven basket overflowing with fresh fruits and vegetables, her back slightly stooped from the weight. She’s wearing a long, floral-patterned dress, its fabric faded and patched in places, and a wide-brimmed straw hat providing shade. The landscape is vibrantly green, with glimpses of crumbling, old, dilapidated houses through the thick trees. Birds of paradise and bright bougainvillea add pops of color. The air is thick with the sound of cicadas.

The Oaks, Holly Mount, The Parsonage, The Pines, Dumbarnie, Mackinnon’s Hall, and Windermere. These are the names of some old houses that are still around near a big town in the Indian hills. They were built a long, long time ago by British people who wanted to get away from the super hot weather down below. Some of the houses got old and broken, and now wild animals like cats, owls, goats, and sometimes people who lead mules live in them. But some are still in good shape.

Among these old houses is a cute, white cottage called Mulberry Lodge. And in it lived a sweet, older British lady named Miss Mackenzie. She was lively and wore dresses that were old-fashioned but looked nice. Once a week, she walked to town and bought yummy things like butter, jam, soap, and sometimes a bottle of perfume.

Miss Mackenzie had lived there since she was a teenager, even before the big war. Her parents, brother, and sister had all passed away. She didn’t have any family in India, and she lived on a little money and gifts from a friend she had known since she was a kid. She didn’t get many visitors – just the local priest, the mailman, and the milkman. Like other lonely older people, she had a pet, a big black cat with bright, yellow eyes.

In her small garden, she grew pretty flowers like dahlias, chrysanthemums, gladioli, and some special orchids. She knew a lot about wildflowers, trees, birds, and bugs. She didn’t study them in school, but she just knew a lot about all the things that grew around her.

Watercolor illustration of Mulberry Lodge at golden hour. Warm light bathes the charming white cottage, highlighting the vibrant hues of the overgrown dahlias, chrysanthemums, and gladioli in the garden. Miss Mackenzie, a sweet, older British lady with grey hair pulled back in a slightly disheveled bun, is kneeling amidst the flowers, her hands stained with earth and a gentle smile on her face. The shadows are long and soft. A large, sleek black cat with piercing, bright yellow eyes sits nearby on a moss-covered stone, its tail twitching slightly as it intently watches her every move. Dewdrops cling to the flower petals. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers.

It was September, and the rainy season was almost over. Miss Mackenzie’s orange marigolds were blooming. She hoped the winter wouldn’t be too cold because it was getting harder for her to handle the cold. One day, while she was working in her garden, she saw a boy from school picking wildflowers on the hill above her cottage. ‘What are you doing, young man?’ she called out.

Watercolor illustration of Anil, a small Indian boy with messy dark hair and a mischievous grin, slipping down a steep, grassy hill covered in scattered pine needles and vibrant wildflowers. He is falling, arms outstretched, towards Miss Mackenzie’s meticulously tended flower bed, a look of startled surprise and dawning realization on his face. His clothes are dusty and well-worn. The cottage, Mulberry Lodge, is visible in the soft-focus background, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the midday sun. A swarm of butterflies flutters above the wildflowers as the boy slides past. The scent of pine needles hangs heavy in the air.

The boy got scared and tried to run up the hill, but he slipped on pine needles and slid down into Miss Mackenzie’s flower bed. He couldn’t get away, so he gave her a big smile and said, ‘Good morning, Miss.’

‘Good morning,’ said Miss Mackenzie in a serious voice. ‘Would you please get out of my flower bed?’

The boy carefully stepped over the flowers and looked at Miss Mackenzie with big, innocent eyes.

‘You should be at school,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Picking flowers, Miss.’ He showed her a bunch of ferns and wildflowers.

‘Oh,’ Miss Mackenzie felt a little softer. It had been a long time since she had seen a boy who liked flowers.

‘Do you like flowers?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Miss. I want to be a botan…a botanist.’

‘You mean a botanist?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘That’s interesting. Do you know the names of these flowers?’

‘This is a buttercup,’ he said, showing her a little yellow flower. ‘But I don’t know what this is,’ he said, holding up a light pink flower with a heart-shaped leaf.

‘It’s a wild begonia,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘And that purple stuff is salvia. Do you have any books about flowers?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘Come inside, and I’ll show you one.’

She took the boy into a small living room that was full of furniture, books, vases, and jars. He sat nervously on the edge of a chair. The cat jumped right onto his lap and started purring softly.

Watercolor illustration of the interior of Miss Mackenzie’s small living room, bathed in the soft, diffused light filtering through lace curtains. The room is cluttered with antique furniture, stacks of books, delicate vases holding wilting flowers, and dusty glass jars filled with dried herbs. Anil is sitting nervously on the edge of a worn, velvet-covered chair, holding a carefully gathered bunch of wildflowers, his dark eyes wide with apprehension. The sleek black cat is curled up possessively in his lap, purring contentedly, its fur gleaming in the dim light. Miss Mackenzie is standing by a towering bookshelf, her face illuminated by the light, holding a large, antique book titled ‘Flora Himaliensis’ with reverence. The air is thick with the scent of old paper, dried flowers, and cat fur.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Miss Mackenzie, as she looked through her books.

‘Anil, Miss.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘When school is out, I go to Delhi. My dad has a store there.’

‘Oh, and what does he sell?’

‘Light bulbs, Miss.’

‘Flower bulbs?’

‘No, electric light bulbs.’

‘Ah, here it is!’ she said, taking a big book from the shelf. ‘ Flora Himaliensis , made in 1892, and maybe the only one in India. This is a special book, Anil. No other scientist has written about as many wildflowers from the mountains. But there are still lots of plants that scientists don’t know about because they spend too much time looking through microscopes instead of going into the mountains. Maybe you’ll do something about that someday.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

She turned on the stove and put the kettle on to make tea. And then the old British lady and the small Indian boy sat next to each other, reading the book. Miss Mackenzie showed him lots of flowers that grew near the town, and the boy wrote down their names and when they bloom.

Watercolor illustration of Miss Mackenzie and Anil sitting side-by-side at a worn, wooden table in the living room, illuminated by the warm, flickering glow of a kerosene lamp. They are both intently studying the intricate illustrations in ‘Flora Himaliensis’. Miss Mackenzie is pointing to a delicate flower with a long, slender finger, her brow furrowed in concentration. Anil is diligently writing notes in a small, leather-bound notebook, his tongue peeking out from between his lips in concentration. The lamp casts long, dancing shadows on the walls, highlighting the details of the room. The soft glow illuminates the dust motes dancing in the air, and the scent of kerosene mingles with the musty aroma of old books.

‘Can I come again?’ asked Anil, when it was time to leave.

‘If you want to,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘But not during school. You need to go to your classes.’

After that, Anil visited Miss Mackenzie about once a week, and he almost always brought a wildflower for her to name. She looked forward to the boy’s visits. Sometimes if more than a week went by and he didn’t come, she would complain to the cat.

By the middle of October, with only two weeks left before school ended, snow fell on the mountains far away. One mountain was taller than the others, a white point against the blue sky. When the sun went down, the point turned from orange to pink to red.

‘How tall is that mountain?’ asked Anil.

‘It must be over 15,000 feet,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘I always wanted to go there, but there isn’t a good road. On the lower hills, there are flowers that you don’t see here: blue gentians, purple columbines.’

Watercolor illustration of a distant, jagged snow-capped mountain peak piercing a vibrant, cloudless blue sky. The lower hills are visible, covered in a tapestry of colorful wildflowers like deep blue gentians and delicate purple columbines. The sun is setting, casting a dramatic orange and pink glow on the snow-covered mountain, painting the sky with vibrant hues. The valleys below are shrouded in shadow. The air is crisp and cold. The overall feeling is one of serene grandeur.

The day before school closed, Anil came to say goodbye. As he was about to leave, Miss Mackenzie pushed the Flora Himaliensis into his hands. ‘It’s a gift,’ she said.

‘But I’ll be back next year, and I can look at it then,’ he said. ‘Plus, it’s so valuable!’

‘That’s why I’m giving it to you. Otherwise, it will end up with people who sell junk.’

‘But, Miss…’

‘Don’t argue.’

The boy held the book under his arm, stood up straight, and said, ‘Goodbye, Miss Mackenzie.’ It was the first time he had said her name.

Strong winds soon brought rain and icy rain, killing the flowers in the garden. The cat stayed inside, curled up at the end of the bed. Miss Mackenzie wrapped herself in old blankets and scarves, but she still felt cold. Her fingers got so stiff that it took almost an hour to open a can of beans.

Then it snowed, and for several days, the milkman didn’t come.

Tired, she spent most of her time in bed. It was the warmest place. She kept a hot water bottle against her back, and the cat kept her feet warm. She dreamed of spring and summer. In three months, the primroses would be blooming, and Anil would come back.

One night, the hot water bottle broke, making the bed wet. The sun didn’t shine for several days, and the blankets stayed wet. Miss Mackenzie caught a cold and had to stay in her cold, uncomfortable bed.

Watercolor illustration of Miss Mackenzie lying weakly in her iron bed, deeply recessed within the small room, wrapped in layers of old, threadbare blankets and woolen scarves. Her face is pale and drawn, her eyes closed. The bedroom window is open, and snowflakes are blowing into the room, melting on the windowsill. The sleek black cat is snuggled close to her chest for warmth, its eyes half-closed, purring softly. The room is dimly lit by a single candle, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The wooden floorboards are worn and creaky. The overall mood is melancholic and frail.

A strong wind started one night and blew the bedroom window open. Miss Mackenzie was too weak to get up and close it. The wind blew rain and icy rain into the room. The cat snuggled close to its owner. In the morning, the body wasn’t warm anymore, and the cat left the bed and started scratching on the floor.

As sunlight came through the window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk into the saucer on the doorstep, and the cat jumped down from the window. The milkman called out to Miss Mackenzie. But no one answered.

Watercolor illustration of the weathered milkman standing on the snow-covered doorstep of Mulberry Lodge, his face etched with concern. He is carefully pouring milk from a metal pail into a saucer placed on the ground. The sleek black cat is gracefully jumping down from the snow-covered window ledge, its eyes fixed on the approaching milk. The cottage looks forlorn and isolated, blanketed in a thick layer of snow. The sky is overcast and grey, and the wind howls softly in the background. The overall mood is somber and desolate.

He knew she was always awake before sunrise, so he looked through the open window and called again.

Miss Mackenzie didn’t answer. She had gone to the mountain, where the blue gentians and purple columbines grow.

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