The Insistent Garden (29 page)
â
My favourite
,' had been written beneath a photograph of a trailing vine. The caption was tiny; I squinted to read the words, â
Parthenocissus
quinquefolia.
' I tried out the syllables on my tongue, tripping beneath the weight of the
S
s, coughing out the
Q
s. Resting my throat, I continued to read; âa climbing plant of great beauty, Virginia creeper is equipped with small adhesive pads, climbing vigourously to cover vertical walls.' I gazed at the page and my thoughts lowered to a whisper.
Vertical walls.
May warmth had drawn large numbers of people into the nursery. I parked my bike further up the lane than before and squeezed it between the doors of a wet Land Rover and the fence. Someone had been round the bottom of the shop sign with a pair of shears and the M in McIntyre had been touched up in black paint. I nibbled the side of my thumb.
You do not go to the nursery
.
A strong smell of compost and wet dog greeted me when I pushed open the door. An impromptu brolley park had formed just inside the entrance and I had to push an over-sized golfing umbrella to one side in order to get through.
Trolley gardens lined the aisle nearest the till, bags of grass seed at the bottom, trays of annuals balanced precariously on top. The regular customers stuck out from the rest. With their towers of stacked plants, they moved through the aisles with confident ease while newcomers eyed their badly packed loads nervously, re-adjusting and tweaking with every movement of the wheels. I glimpsed Nancy Pit at the till, her amiable features harassed into rudeness by the line of people, which started neatly, but broke down when it reached the lawnmower display at the back of the shop. Padding through the carpet of spilt potting compost and escaped beads of vermiculite, I made my way towards the area marked âClimbers.' I rummaged through, fretting that the prices bore no relation to the coins sitting in my purse. Then my hands came to rest on the fastest plant in the world.
Humulus lupus
bore all the hallmarks of speed. The growing tips were pointed like arrows and the tendrils were already out of the box heading in the direction of the largest window in the shop. I picked it up, folded the shoots up into the pot and joined the queue.
“Good mor. . . oh, hello Edith.” A fresh bloom rose on Nancy Pit's already flushed cheeks. “How are you, dear?”
“I'm well, thank you.”
A troubled look settled over the bloom. “And your aunt?”
“She's well too.”
“Is she. . . likely to be visiting you again soon?”
“She lives with us now.”
“Oh. . . Why is that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did she move in with you?” A tut sounded behind.
“I. . . she was. . . lonely,” A penny of heat rose on my cheeks; I could feel it.
Nancy Pit's lips curved upwards. “I see. Is this vine your only plant?”
“Yes.”
“Good choice. Mile-a-minute. Is it for the wall?”
The wall
. The word had been said. Out loud.
“. . .yes.”
My hands trembled as I hung my bag on the handlebars. I turned to watch the woman through the shop window. Why
did
she keep coming to the house? And why did Vivian refuse to let her in? As I swung my leg over the crossbar I remembered her last words. I could not go there again.
I heard feet running; I glimpsed red; I smelled sweat, but I was unprepared for the hit. An inch of pain welded itself to my chest as Vivian rushed passed me, shoved her elbow into my ribs and sent me stumbling to the floor. As I sat slumped against the wall, I heard her yank open the front door.
“Get off my property!” bellowed Vivian's voice somewhere above.
A face hovered above me through strings of white light. “I. . . oh, look what you've done!”
“She'll be alright.” Vivian said, from somewhere high up.
A blurred face veered towards me. “Are you alright, dear?”
“Yes, thank you, just dizzy.”
“Are you sure?” Let me help you up.”
“It's alright” I said, “I'll sit here for a minute.”
I rubbed my eyes, fleshing out sparks. Then the face receded and female voices continued to shout, ricocheting through the space above my head.
“Vivian, we have to â”
“Get out of my house.”
“Vivian â”
“Out!”
Heels clicked, feet smeared the floor, and a voice called out from a distance. Then the door slammed.
I rubbed my forehead, savouring the quiet that had settled on the hall. When I looked up, it was just in time to catch the flannel plopped down onto my lap.
A piece of bruised meat wore my clothes that night. My forehead throbbed, a stick of pain poked my back, and only by gritting my teeth did I manage to down lie on my bed and think about the events of the afternoon.
Why
did
Vivian not want to meet Nancy Pit? Her friend. But Vivian had no friends. Not one single person had visited her since she moved permanently into our house. She had managed to scare away the handful of friendly regulars: the brick merchant had replaced his regular quips about âbuilding the Berlin Wall' with sullen requests to âsign on the dotted line,' and even the milkman had abandoned his attempts at early morning pep, putting down the bottles in a rush before tearing back up to the gate as fast as he could go. Only Johnny Worth had managed to remain cheerful in the face of my aunt's ever-increasing curtness. But Nancy Pit? She used to be Vivian's friend. Something to be treasured, not cast out like a pile of old clothes. I fluffed air into my pillow, lay on my back and stared at the crack in the ceiling. It was longer.
34 Ethrington Street
Billingsford,
Northamptonshire
20th May 1969
Dear Gillian,
Is everyone round here a bit odd? I was up the ladder, trying to get at that mouldy loaf I was telling you about â the one that horrible kid threw up onto the high shelf â when in bursts this woman. Talk about scared. She was dragging on her fag like it was her last gasp and her collar was damp and tucked in like she'd dressed in a hurry. She had some sort of uniform on under her coat, green with a flowery badge. She didn't notice me at first and I saw her look back out of the window all anxious and fidgety and I half expected to see a copper come panting up the hill after her. Can I help you? I say from above, and she jumped out of her skin, really jumped. I swear I saw her feet leave the floor. Well, she bought seven packets of Rothmans, yes seven, and rushed out before I had a chance to probe. I know what you're thinking, that's not much of a story, but Gill, she's got me wondering, maybe something funny is going on in this street. But enough about me. How's it going with that new bloke of yours? Oh, I forgot to say, Edith's come in to work with a cut on her forehead. Said it was the mop end that had done it.
Mops can do that to you. Can't they?
Jean
Grinder seemed content to take his place in the family, content to eat from a bowl labeled âG,' and more than content to lift his fur into crests every time I entered the kitchen. He knew well the power of a black gum and even padded into my dreams, chasing off all other participants until I woke, gripping my blanket and inspecting my bed to see if real dog hairs had been left on the sheets.
The dog ruled the underside of the kitchen table like a petty policeman. Ticklish flicks from his tail, grazes from sloppy dog lips and random shoves from a bony backside whenever he turned round all punctuated our meals. His timing was perfect; he knew to release wind just as the meal appeared on the plates and he knew to open his mouth whenever a careless elbow sent tidbits over the edge. Vivian loved him, if dragging back his ears painfully could be called love, while my father ignored him, so making him the focus of Grinder's slavish devotion.
His care had fallen to me. I spent many anxious moments waiting for him to close his eyes so I could refill his feeding bowl, while letting him out into the back garden, as instructed by my aunt, led to daily bouts of worry as I watched his tail scythe through my plants like the blades of a helicopter.
It did not take Grinder long to discover the cellar. I smelled him before I saw him, that mix of damp towels and mud and he pushed open the door just as I'd pulled the blanket across my knees and padded slowly the steps like a princess arriving at a ball. I tried to meet his eye but recoiled at his shockingly pink tongue, too long for his mouth, which dripped saliva onto the concrete floor.
“Hello,” I whispered.
He moved closer and nuzzled my knee, and then he growled, a low, quivering noise that roughed up the sounds of the cellar.
“Please don't,” I murmured, “they'll find me.”
He growled again and as I glimpsed his face I felt suddenly revolted by the brown membranous edge to his eyes. But dogs, I now know, don't respond to the doubt of a human and a bony flank bumped my leg and his chin came to rest on my knee. I lifted my hand and tentatively stroked the top of his head. It felt soft, like the fur of a teddy bear I once had. As he closed his eyes I withdrew my hand and opened the book lying on my lap. My torch threw a pale circle onto the page.
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Then, for the first time, down in the cellar, very quietly, with my fist pressed into my mouth, I laughed.
It was how I imagined a hotel: sheets changed every day, sinks checked hourly, and a selection of dishes prepared for every meal. Grinder was not the only new member of the family to alter the working of the house. Ever since Vivian had moved in full time my chores had been ratcheted up to new levels. Sweat glands out of control, she changed her clothes at least twice a day, constantly re-organizing the layers, a vest beneath a blouse, a jerkin beneath a cardigan, and by the time night fell, a sweaty pile would be waiting at the end of my bed with silent instructions to wash. She forced her china into already-full cupboards, squeezed plastic-covered furniture into the living room and tightened the toothpaste cap so tightly it hurt my fingers every time I tried to unscrew it. My father reacted to the shifting rhythm of the house with a surge of activity of his own, papering an entire woodland scene onto the living room wall before discovering a seam of flaking brickwork that needed his attention at the end of the garden.
It was a warm day in June when a part of my neighbour's life reached into my garden. This day, like many others before it, felt breezy. Billingsford was not known for windiness but my street traversed the bent back of a hill and I fought a constant battle with hair slapping my face and rubbish flying up from my dustbin. It was while I was wiping brick dust out of my eyes that I first caught sight of the âthing.' A small object flew up over the high wall, plummeted, lifted up again, and then flipped backwards before landing at the end of the garden. I did not move. I just gripped the ladder more tightly and stared at the underside of my father's heels. At the same moment, he dropped a sentence from three rungs up so I stepped down onto the ground and let go of the ladder. As he climbed down, I scanned the far end of the garden, looking for a sign of it.
