The Insistent Garden (21 page)

She leaned towards me. “How is he?”

Something beat at the bottom of my neck. “I. . . he. . .”

“Is he still making you do all the work?”

“My father? Yes, he does.”

Una looked quizzical. “You seem alright about that.”

I wiped a moist hand across my skirt. “I'm used to it.”

“Edith, is there something you're not telling me?”

“No.” We sat in silence; I could hear the kettle whistling in the kitchen below. “Well, actually, yes.”

Una looked at me, expectant.

“I met this man.”

“What man?”

“He works in the bookshop on Adlington Street. I went in there one day and I found out he used to work with my mother and we became. . . sort of friends.”

Una's eyebrows twitched. “What do you mean, sort of friends?”

“Like us.”

“You mean sitting together on the bed?”

My cheeks felt warm, “Oh, no, I. . . we just talk and look at his books.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

Una's shoulder's relaxed. “Edith, you know how this looks.”

“I know how it looks and I don't care.”

She gazed at me in admiration.

“Una, he knew my mother and he's willing to talk about her. No-one else is.”

She smiled. “You had me worried there. I'm just relieved to hear that you're not having fantasies about strange older men.”

33

Black water filled the saucepan as Vivian's prunes simmered on the stove. My aunt came to stay two times a week now. Two taxis, two suitcases, two stressful cycles of arrival and departure. The announcement of an additional visiting day had been unexpected, a curt sentence thrown into the kitchen the previous week as she left the house and now I was organizing a twice-weekly breakfast regime of cereal soaked in hot milk, stewed fruit and boiled eggs. Eggs had always fascinated me. I'd been a small child when I tried to incubate my first chicken. The eggs lining the fridge door had always bothered me and a deep sense of worry gnawed at my five-year-old heart every time I went in to search for leftovers. I pitied them, the poor abandoned things. Where were their mothers? What had happened to their nests? One had a stamp on its side that looked like a face, so I had picked it up, sneaked upstairs and held it in my hands until the fridge chill was gone. But it never really warmed up. All I felt was a dead heat, not the live heat of a living thing. Then I'd made a nest in the corner of my bedroom. Not from twigs or spit or handfuls of moss but from underwear lifted from the chest of drawers, schoolgirl socks threaded with vests then gathered inside a towel. But the face egg still exuded a dead heat when I laid it in the centre and covered it up with a small pair of knickers.

I placed three bowls on the kitchen table and lay a spoon beside each one. What was Vivian doing here, I wondered? What could explain the growing number of night cream bottles crowding the bathroom shelf? How could I ask? I was poking a teaspoon into the puckered fruit skin, turning the question over in my mind, when someone knocked on the door.

“Edith, get that,” said Vivian.

I dropped my napkin onto my chair, darted into the hall and opened the door.

“Good morning. Is your aunt at home?” Nancy Pit looked dressed for work; the strap of a green overall showed beneath her collar.

I tightened my grip on the door handle. “She's having her breakfast.” “May I come in? I would like to talk to her.”

“I. . .”

The hall reeked suddenly of warm prunes. “Nancy Pit,” said Vivian, joining me on the doormat.

The woman gave a short nod. “Vivian.”

I took a small step back; I wished the print on my dress matched the wallpaper more closely.

“It's been a long time,” said Vivian.

“It has,” replied Nancy Pit. She glanced towards the kitchen door. “I'd like to talk to you, Vivian, if I may. Can I. . . come in?”

I edged further back, breaking out the smallest of steps.

“I don't think we have anything to talk about.”

The tiny steps ceased.

“This won't take long.” Nancy Pit's overall straps shifted.

“I'm busy,” replied Vivian.

I thought of the waiting cereal, sucking up milk.

“Are you really not going to let me in?” Nancy Pit's mole had turned fierce, resting atop pursed lips.

“No.”

Vivian lifted her arm, stepped back and slammed the door. A hard, loud sound. Upsetting. She turned towards me. “If that woman comes round again, you know what to do.”

“Erm. . . yes.”

I looked out of the window after the woman had gone. She walked fast, the walk of someone wanting to depart faster than her body allowed. And she let something fall from her face as she closed the gate behind her; it just fell away. A mask.

I had almost finished the washing up before Vivian spoke again. “Don't let your father know about that woman coming round.”

“I won't.”

34

I dreaded the queue. The waiting, the watching, the taking of their time. Jean had shown me how to use the till on my third day at the shop. It had seemed easy enough at first but now, with a succession of hips leaning against the counter I felt like a beetle trapped beneath a magnifying glass. All women, they passed through in different ways. The first — bracelet in the way — flashed a five-pound note then closed her handbag with a snap so ferocious it made me jump. The second drummed her nails on the formica and sighed through her nose, a large-nostrilled organ that wrinkled up as it came in range of the air fresheners stacked on the counter. The third laid a Christmas card on the counter and smiled.

“That's a nice picture,” I ventured. “Hellebores.”

“Isn't it. It's for my niece.”

The woman dipped into her bag, her fingers disappearing inside the folds of a scarf stowed inside. “Do you like flowers?” she asked.

“Me?. . . oh, yes. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I haven't the time to look after them, though.”

“What do you have time to look after —?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

The card wouldn't seem to fit into the paper bag. “I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. . . That'll be one and nine, please.”

The woman stared. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I'm really sorry. Here's your change.”

The woman paused then departed. She turned back and smiled as she reached the door. I smiled back, the curve of my lips holding up the rest of my face.

“Nice of that lady to stop for a chat.” Jean poured coffee into her cup.

“Yes.”

“Not like some of the battle-axes we get in. I got a filthy look this morning after I moved the bread to a different shelf.” She pushed a blob of milk skin to the side of her cup with a spoon. “And then she had the cheek to return it with a bit missing off the end.”

Our staggered coffee breaks, so essential to the efficient running of the shop, had merged and Jean had taken to flipping the door sign over to ‘Closed' at ten thirty, pouring over-brewed coffee into matching cups before sliding a garibaldi biscuit onto each saucer and dragging her chair beside mine. Jean was fairly new to Billingsford. She'd grown up in a nearby town and only moved when her husband had unexpectedly deserted her, leaving behind a wardrobeful of suits and a streetload of gossip. Jean's pleasure was gossip but she'd been badly burned and I observed her often struggling between the desire to dig and her memories of being on the receiving end. “Some of the women who come in here. You'd think they'd be a bit more friendly, don't you think. . .

Edith.”

“That woman with the twin babies was nice. “I replied. “She looked so happy.”

Jean rearranged her features. “Where's your mum, Edith. You never mention her.”

“She's. . . not with me anymore.”

“Moved away?”

“She's dead.”

“Oh, love, sorry to hear that.” Jean picked up her cup. “How did she die?”

“She was. . . ill.”

Jean placed her cup down on the table. “What was the trouble?”

“There wasn't any trouble. She was ill. Then she died.”

“I see.” Jean leaned back in her chair, “I just thought you might like to talk about her, that's all. When my mum died I bored the socks off the whole street.”

“I do want to talk about her, but not yet.”

“Another time maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Any brothers and sisters?”

“None.”

“So, it's just you and your dad at home then, is it?”

“More or less, although my aunt comes to stay.”

“Oh, what's she like?”

“She's. . . there a lot.”

The shop bell rang.

“Can't they read?” said Jean, pushing back her chair and heading towards the front of the shop. “Oh, it's Archie.”

“Any mince pies left?” he said, coming round our side of the counter with a lavish swing of his body.

“Sit down, Archie,” said Jean. “I'll have a look out the back in a minute. Fancy some elevenses? The coffee's hot. I think there's a biscuit at the bottom of the packet.”

“Thanks, it's perishing out there. I think I even saw a snowflake.” He sat down at the table. “Seen this?” He pulled a newspaper out from under his arm. “They're reading Genesis now.”

“Who's reading Genesis now?” said Jean, examining her nails.

“The astronauts. Haven't you been following any of the news? Apollo 8? Listen.” He opened the newspaper and stood up grandly. “Darkness was upon the face of the deep,” he thundered. He smiled. “Do you think they are trying to convert us from up high?”

“Wouldn't catch me in a spaceship,” Jean said.

“Jean,” chided Archie, “don't be so. . .”

“So what?”

“So. . . uninspired.”

“Are you inspired, Archie?” I said.

“Edie,” he turned to me, “this is magical. Man might actually walk on the moon soon, next year maybe.”

I thought of the end of my street. “It must be frightening, being up there in a little bubble of air.”

“Terrifying, but these men are trained for it. Years of mental preparation gets them ready to face almost anything.” He dragged his chair closer to mine. “So, how's my girl doing?”

“Brilliantly,” said Jean. “Scrubs those shelves like a trooper. I'll have the health inspector in soon if I'm not careful, the place is starting to look suspiciously clean.” She winked; for some reason it bothered me.

Archie laid his hand on my arm. “Coping with the customers alright?”

“Yes, I think so.” I glanced at Jean.

“We were just talking about Edith's mum,” she said.

Archie's smile sagged. “Miriam?”

“Oh, was that her name?” Jean glanced in my direction.

Archie shifted in his chair. “Is that the time?” he said, looking at his watch. “I better get going.”

“You've only just got here,” said Jean.

“I've just remembered. . . I've. . . got to post a letter. Do you want me to take the one on the table there, Jean?” He turned towards me. “I'll probably see you later, Edie.”

“I hope so.”

Jean walked Archie to the door. A look of great purpose from his side of the table lured her into this unusual display of courtesy, and they walked down the aisle together before stepping out onto the street and closing the door.

Archie's head looked bigger through the window. The glass was warped and even Jean's narrow face had widened under the distortion. He was telling her something out in the street. I could tell that by the way he stood so close when he spoke. And I could tell that by the way she straightened her shoulders as she listened.

I rinsed out the coffee cups, wiped the table with the sponge cloth and threw the biscuit wrapping into the bin.