The Insistent Garden (22 page)
December rolled into January and I felt myself grow sloth-like. Everything was an effort. From the second my toes touched the floor first thing in the morning to the moment I spat the last globules of minty saliva into the bathroom sink, life moved more slowly. I was still on call to the rigours of the house, checking the level of coal on the fire, ironing the sheets, but everything took longer, everything took more energy than I had. I willed spring to come but despite my peering out of the window several times a day the garden did not change. It just sat there, absorbing the relentless inches of drizzle and holding onto the layers of winter slime that coated every twig and every stone and every twisted thread of washing line. Christmas had come and gone, all attempts at festivity predictably wrapped in awfulness. Vivian had arrived for an extended stay and she and my father spent the evenings of the darkest days of winter in an irritable stupor with arguments about crossword puzzles relieved only by reprisals over who had left the back door open. I lay low, merging into the background as tempers frayed, only entering the kitchen when it was empty. Only then could I sit at the table and listen to nothing but the ticking of the clock, moving time forward. For me.
Finally, in the last week of the month, a translucent quality to the air suggested that the earth was tilting onto a new axis. Fresh aromas began to seep up from the soil, clinging to the clothes flapping helplessly on the washing line, carried into the house in the bottom of the laundry basket and rising up from my pillow as I laid my head down at night. Light levels shifted imperceptibly and one day in early February the sun came out. I stood at the kitchen window marveling at how I could see right to the back of the garden. But the back of the garden was different. Something lay on the ground. Something purple.
The stiff sleeve of a frozen shirt cuffed my cheek as I dashed past the washing line and across the grass but I hardly stopped, aiming only for the enticing spots of colour beneath the back fence. Transparent bags of frosted breath were coming out of my mouth by the time I had rushed up the garden and saw what was there.
My first bulbs were coming up, their tiny noses easing back the soil, heading skyward. I could not resist kneeling down and touching the tip of one. It felt extraordinarily clean. I touched the next one: clean too. But something was not right. I stood up and examined the ground around my feet. I had planted the bulbs in the last week of September. I clearly recalled tearing open the bags, filling the air with papery skins, but I did not remember planting them so close to the back fence. Turning in an arc, I studied the ground. More bulbs poked up beside my left ankle. I twisted round and it was then that I realized. I stood inside a ring of bulbs, planted in a perfect circle.
“Bulbs
can
spread, Edie, but not halfway down the garden, not in less than a season. Are you sure you didn't plant them?”
“I'm certain.”
We were huddled in Archie's garden shed hidden inside the branches of his pear tree, which hugged the roof like an eager lover.
“They must have been growing beneath the old hawthorn for years,” he insisted.
“In a circle?”
For once he had no answer. He frowned, stroking the bristles on his cheek; I could hear the chafing.
“Was there ever a real garden here before?” I asked. “. . .before I was born?”
Archie looked away, his profile chopped into pieces by the blades of spring sunlight crossing the shed. “I don't like to think about those old times. I like to forget.”
“What old times?”
“Edie.” He swallowed. “Please don't ask me to remember.”
We sat in silence. We never sat in silence.
“Hello. . . I would like to speak to Jane Titchmarsh. . . My name is Edith. . . Yes. . . Yes, Miriam's baby. . . That's right, I'm eighteen. . . Why? Well, because I found your number and you were her friend I think. . . I thought you might be able to tell me something about my mother and what happened to her. . . I know, but it's
my
business. . . Oh, what sort of accusations were made back then?. . . But who
can
I ask?. . . Ask my father?. . . I see. . . yes. . . goodbye.”
The phone clicked sadly as I placed the handset down. Yet the cards flipped up with cheerful eagerness when I opened the little drawer. They were silent when I tugged them out, one by one, but as I threw them into the bin they let out a tiny echo, telephone numbers hitting tin.
34 Ethrington Street
Billingsford,
Northamptonshire
13th February 1969
Dear Gillian,
So, I'll go straight to it â that woman all kitted out in red is Edith's aunt. Yes, I was shocked too. All this time we've been wondering about who she is I've been hearing about her straight from the horse's mouth. She's the one that turns up at Edith's house twice a week and brings a big suitcase. And she's the one that made her late that time the porridge wasn't cooked right. Poor kid. No wonder she doesn't say much. Hope the aunt woman doesn't start showing up at the shop â might have to bite my tongue. But when I think about it Gill, maybe its time for Edith to toughen up a bit, give that woman a taste of her own medicine. And then I remembered something Martin told me in the pub. He mentioned lots of bricks going into that house. Perhaps they're building an illegal extension on the back there. Wouldn't put it past that scary aunt, would you? I know you say I go on a bit about the Stoker family but it's top-notch drama isn't it. I'd be putting my feet up, opening a packet of crisps and settling down for a good old watch if it was on the telly.
I got a visit from the postman today. He looks about fourteen and sniffs a lot but he's a friendly lad. He hung around the greeting cards for ages, rubbing his hands together and pulling his lips as if he didn't have forty streets to get round before ten o'clock. I ignored him at first, â who wants to get into a conversation with a fourteen year-old â but then he said something strange. There's a lot of funny people in this street, aren't there. What sort of funny people I say while I've still got his attention. So he starts with his list â there's a woman who talks to her cat like it's a baby and there's a boy who wears his shoes on the wrong feet and there's a bloke who watches him from the window.
Don't we all watch the postman from the window I'm thinking when he says something even stranger. The bloke watches from the window but he never leaves the house. How do you know he's watching I'm about to ask when he pulls his cap back onto his head and says â I can feel it. It gave me goose pimples, just the way he said it. Then I noticed the card he'd got in his sweaty little hand. St. Valentine's. Poor lamb.
Jean
The task of airing out the house began. I stripped beds, I beat doormats and I cracked open windows that had stuck to their frames. Sweaters were pushed to the backs of drawers; shirts pulled to the front. People began emerging from their houses, drawn to the first scents of spring, clean air, clean pavements, and clean grass. Oh, grass. For me, nothing could beat the smell of that first cut of the year. Archie was already out there, oiling the lawnmower and sweeping his path but I noticed he had more of a stoop than I had remembered, as if a winter beside the fire had weakened his muscles and stiffened his joints. Yet, Archie had always been old in my mind. His chin had never been completely free of stubble and those tartan slippers of his, he had worn them forever. His memory was like the interior of an abandoned shop, the door locked, its keyhole rusty and the windows covered with sheets of brown paper. Nothing could be extracted without a considerable amount of effort and he now preferred to think only of the present. More reliable, he said. Una could remember being born; she was adamant. Forceps were icy on her ears, the fluorescent ceiling lights grey at the ends, and the front of the midwife's blouse terribly, terribly scratchy. I couldn't remember a smiling father or a garden without a high wall. I couldn't remember the details of my own mother's face.
A shiver went through me as I stood by the front gate surveying my view. I could see its familiar edges: the house on the corner of the street, its bricks painted a broken white with orange already showing through, Jean's shop to the east, its windows crammed with tins and jars and packets, and straight ahead, the big blue tree. I had never been close enough to touch it but it lined up with my garden path and it felt like mine. A grey spot appeared beneath it as I looked. I watched it grow larger, disappear, then re-appear closer. Johnny Worth was on his rounds. I could see the postbag bobbing on his hips and I smiled as a tiny dog chased his heels, bag bobbing faster and faster. He sped up when he saw me and the postbag broke step, banging into his back in a mutinous rhythm. He was panting by the time he reached me.
“You waiting for me?” he said. Shining eyes escaped the shadow of his cap.
“No. I was waiting for the post.”
“Oh.” His face collapsed back into shadow as he rummaged in his bag. “But you don't normally wait at the gate.” He tilted his head back into full sunlight.
I glanced over my shoulder. “It was. . . stuffy in the house.”
“Nothing for you today, I'm afraid.”
“I should go in,” I said.
“No, wait.” He placed his hand on my arm. It felt warm, even through my sweater.
“How's the garden coming along?”
“It's lovely.”
“Got everything you need? Flowers. . . trees? I can get things you know. What do you need? My grandma's got loads of stuff piled up in her side alley. She even chucks plants out when she can't get through to the back garden anymore. Do you want to come over and have a look?”
“Does she really throw plants out?”
“Yeah, loads of them.” He grinned. âShe's too good at growing.
Hey, let's go there later. I could come and collect you after my round.”
“Where does she live?”
“Back end of Forster. If you were as tall as me maybe you'd be able to see her house from here.”
I tried to visualize the person who was too good at growing. “Could you come back at half past two?”
“I'll be here.”
The postbag seemed to have lost weight as he marched off, humming a little tune. I checked my watch. Half an hour to vacuum the house.
“Cooee.”
Johnnie Worth peered through the letterbox. I pulled on my coat and hurried to the door.
“Ready?” He held the crook of his arm towards me.
“I don't have much time,” I said, rushing past and striding up the path. “We'll have to be quick.”
“Of course, follow me.”
I had seen his grandma's house many times before. It stood where I turned the corner on my way to the shops. More than once I had wondered what sort of person would hang balls of human hair on the gatepost.
“Keeps the deer out,” said Johnny knowledgeably as he pushed open the gate.
“Will your grandma be at home?” I asked.
