Mr Romanov's Garden in the Sky

by Robert Newton

  ‘So you’ve got a plan?’ whispered Davey.

  ‘Don’t need one,’ I said.

  The lady behind the counter was at work on a floral display, adding tufts of green to a bouquet of red flowers. She raised her head up as we approached and looked over the glasses on the tip of her nose.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said.

  ‘Hi. My name is Lexie.’

  ‘Hello, Lexie. I’m Betty.’

  ‘Hi, Betty. And this is Myron.’

  ‘Hello, Myron,’ she said.

  Davey didn’t say anything so I gave him an encouraging jab with my elbow.

  ‘Say hi to the lady, Myron.’

  ‘Hi, lady.’

  Betty put the bouquet down on the bench and gave us her full attention.

  ‘And what can I do for you?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of The Green Fingers Project . . .’

  ‘The Green Fingers Project?’

  Betty said the words out loud as if doing so might help her remember.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, I probably should have. It sounds important.’

  ‘It is, Betty. It’s very important. Basically it’s a community garden we’re building at the commission for kids like Myron.’

  ‘Oh wow. What a great idea.’

  ‘Yeah, I just thought it would be nice for them to have something that they can feel a part of, a place where they can go and get their fingers dirty and learn about sustainability and stuff.’

  Betty seemed impressed.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the little entrepreneur. How old are you, Lexie, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I’m thirteen.’

  ‘Thirteen. Good on you.’

  I pretended to be embarrassed.

  ‘Thanks, Betty. Anyway, we’re asking some of the local traders if they’d be willing to donate some things, and with you being a nursery and all, I was wondering if you might have a few spare plants.’

  ‘You bet I would.’

  Betty tucked a hand into her apron pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen.

  ‘So what did you have in mind?’

  ‘Herbs,’ said Davey.

  The sound of Davey’s voice made Betty look up. She leaned over the counter and spoke to him with a cutesy baby voice.

  ‘Do you like herbs, Myron?’ said Betty. ‘I like them too.’

  ‘I was thinking about a rose bush,’ I said. ‘And some sunflowers as well, you know, to brighten up their days.’

  ‘Roses and sunflowers we can do as well. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. Whatever you think, really.’

  ‘Okay then, let’s see . . .’

  After stepping out from behind the counter, Betty craned her head to the nursery outside. I went to follow her but Davey grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

  ‘Myron?’ he whispered. ‘Why the hell do I have to be Myron?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just came out.’

  ‘Oh, it did, did it? You’re making me out to be an idiot, Lexie. May I remind you that you’re the one wearing a cowgirl hat?’

  ‘Let go, Myron. You’re hurting my arm.’

  As soon as he let me go I bolted for the door and headed outside. I slowed myself down when Betty saw me and joined her by the potted rose bushes along the fence line.

  ‘So, the roses go by all sorts of names and colours,’ she said. ‘And they’ll all grow nicely in a well-fed soil. It’s really a matter of what you like.’

  I walked down the line and stopped in front of a small bush. Tied to its stem was a picture of a purple rose.

  ‘This purple one’s nice,’ I said. ‘What’s it called?’

  Davey came over and stood beside me.

  ‘It’s called Best Friends,’ said Betty.

  ‘Really? Best Friends . . . Myron, did you hear that?’

  ‘Yeah. I heard.’

  ‘That settles it, then. We’ll take Best Friends, please, Betty.’

  I wasn’t entirely proud of what I’d done, making up stories about the Green Fingers Project, especially since Betty had been so generous and kind. Even still, there was a part of me that wondered if what we were doing wasn’t a kind of charity in itself. It was only a guess, mind you, but I had the feeling that seeing the garden through might have been the reason Mr Romanov hadn’t jumped a long time ago.

  Although Betty was keen for us to pick whatever we wanted from the nursery display, we decided it was best not to go overboard. After selecting the rose bush, I chose a sunflower as well, then I trailed after Davey as he slunk around the nursery and collected his herbs. A short while later when a customer entered the store we said our goodbyes and thanked Betty for her generous support. After giving me a hug she ruffled Davey’s hair and left us at the counter with our collection of plastic pots. As we bundled them into the carry bags, Davey angled his head and whispered.

  ‘You owe me, Lexie. You owe me, big time.’

  Davey didn’t say much on the short walk home so when we got to the commission we divided up the pots and went our separate ways. As tempted as I was to take the elevator up and show Mr Romanov the plants, I decided it was best to wait until tomorrow as planned. My mother was home, standing at the kitchen bench when I walked through the door.

  She looked up and smiled as if yesterday’s fight hadn’t even happened.

  ‘What’s in the bags?’ she asked.

  ‘Plants,’ I said.

  ‘Oh.’

  I waited for her to ask, I even had the lie ready to go but she didn’t seem interested in the plants, so I placed them down by the door and headed for my room.

  ‘I got you something,’ she said.

  I stopped by the coffee table and turned around.

  ‘For your birthday,’ she said. ‘Do you want to see?’

  ‘Sure.’

  As I walked slowly towards her, she bent down and retrieved something from behind the kitchen bench. It was a picture, a picture that seemed oddly familiar.

  ‘What do you think?’ my mother asked. ‘I know how much you like the beach.’

  The picture was actually a print of a black and white photo with a thin wooden frame around the outside. I’d seen it somewhere before but it wasn’t until I got closer and saw the cracked glass that I realised where. I’d seen it among the pile of rubbish at the bottom of the rubbish chute downstairs.

  ‘So, do you like it, Lex?’

  ‘Yeah, mum, it’s nice.’

  ‘Sorry about the glass. Clumsy old me dropped it on the way home from the shop. But don’t worry, I’ll fix that.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sure? What, that’s it? I go out of my way to buy you a present and all I get is “sure”?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘How about, “thank you, Mum, I love it.” ’

  ‘Thank you, Mum, I love it. You’re the best mum, ever.’

  My mother’s hand seemed to come from nowhere. It slapped my face so hard it pushed me off balance.

  ‘How dare you?’ she screamed. ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through.’

  I couldn’t move at first. I just stood there frozen with my right hand pressed against my burning cheek. Then all of a sudden the words came.

  ‘And what about what I’ve been through?’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s been like for me, having a junkie for a mum?’

  ‘Lexie . . .’

  ‘You have no idea, Mum. You have no idea because it’s all about you, you and that bloody poison.’

  ‘That’s not true, Lexie.’

  ‘Yes, it is. God, you’re like a zombie. Even when you’re here you’re not here. You’re always thinking about the next time.’

  It was as if I’d flicked a switch. My mother dropped her eyes to the picture on the bench and ran a finger along the crack in the glass.

  ‘I’ll fix it,’ she said. ‘You’ll see, it’ll be just like new.’

  ‘Stop, Mum.’


  ‘And when it’s done you can hang it on your bedroom wall.’

  She didn’t seem to be listening anymore. As she ran her finger along the crack in the glass, the jagged edge bit her skin and left a trail of red in its wake.

  ‘Mum, stop.’

  I grabbed her wrist and she looked up, startled.

  ‘I can’t do this, anymore,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t do what, sweetheart?’

  ‘Lie. I can’t lie for you, anymore. I can’t and I won’t.’

  Later that night, I heard the sound of my mother’s voice. She was in the living room talking to someone on her mobile phone. I couldn’t hear what she was saying from my bed, so I walked over to the door and rested my back against the wood.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘But I need it now . . . No, no, I can come there . . . Fifteen Harold Street . . . What’s that . . .? Sorry, sixteen Harold Street . . . Yeah, yeah, I’m writing it on my hand . . . twenty minutes . . . I’ll be there.’

  It hadn’t seemed too bad early on, when I first found out my mother was using. She used to take herself off once a week and tell me that she was catching up with friends for a drink. I could live with that, a lie a week, but soon enough the weekly catch-ups became two and then three. To pay for it all, she sold her jewellery, our furniture, pretty much everything that wasn’t nailed to the floor and when people bothered to ask, she justified it with a long line of hard luck single-mother stories. But the one thing she couldn’t hide was how she looked. She stopped eating properly and skipped meals, sometimes for days, and slowly her skin turned grey and wrapped tight around her bones.

  I often think back to those early days and I wonder if maybe I could’ve done more. If I’d known back then the things I know now, maybe I could have got her to stop. But she was too far gone now. The poison was everything. It was more important than me. And that’s what hurt the most.

  It didn’t take long for my mother to leave. As soon as she was gone, I slid my back down the bedroom door and sat quietly on the floor. I tried to think in colours, tried to take myself off to a blue sea and a golden sun but the grey wouldn’t let me go. The walls began to close in around me and all of a sudden I became aware of the floors above and the enormous weight pressing down on top of me. I felt trapped.

  I went searching for something in the grey, something to help me breathe and spotted my old blue suitcase sticking out from under the bed. I crawled over, dragged it out and clicked it open. When I lifted the lid, the first thing I saw was the map. I picked it up and unfolded it then I straightened it out on the floor with the palms of my hands.

  ‘Anywhere, Lexie. Anywhere at all. The world is waiting just for you.’

  I hadn’t been camping for ages and just the idea of it made the world seem bigger somehow. After clearing a space on the floor, I built a tent with some blankets and chairs the way we used to and when I was done I went to the kitchen to fix myself some chocolate milk. My mother had taken the paper off the wall and uncovered Miranda’s face.

  ‘So, what’s with the plants?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘They must be for something.’

  ‘We’re building a garden, if you must know.’

  ‘We?’

  Being a smiley face, Miranda didn’t know what I got up to outside.

  ‘We, Miranda. Me and Davey and . . .’

  ‘Davey? You mean that boy who came over the other night, the one with the eye?’

  ‘Yes, that boy.’

  ‘Eww.’

  ‘What do you mean, eww?’

  ‘I mean, eww, eww, eww. Still, have a look at yourself. It’s not like you can afford to be choosy.’

  ‘It’s not like that, Miranda.’

  ‘It’s not? Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t the two of you run off to Surfers Paradise together? Now that’d be funny.’

  ‘Goodbye, Miranda.’

  ‘No, wait, I’m still talking, Lexie. Come on, Lexie, stop.’

  That night I fell asleep on my bedroom floor and dreamt of a little girl building sandcastles in the sand.

  I tried to hang onto her when I opened my eyes the next morning, tried to drag myself back to the warm sun and the harking gulls but my aching body wouldn’t let me go. Sleep was long gone so I sat myself up and tugged at the blanket above me. When it slipped off the chair, I got to my feet then headed for the corner of my room and got dressed. After checking on my mother, I grabbed a few things I needed and tucked them into my coat pocket. The plants from the nursery were still where I’d left them so I picked them up and headed out the door.

  When I got to the rooftop, Mr Romanov and Davey were standing beside the garden, turning over the soil with shovels.

  ‘Morning, you two,’ I said. ‘At it already, I see. Impressive.’

  Mr Romanov smiled.

  ‘And good morning to you, cowgirl. We are almost ready.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Davey was stroppy. I’d been his friend long enough to know the scowl on his face, so when Mr Romanov went off for the last bag of feed, I shifted up beside him and pretended to inspect the soil.

  ‘You still mad with me?’ I asked.

  ‘Not with you.’

  Something was going on. I could see it in Davey’s eyes.

  ‘So what’s wrong, then?’

  ‘He promised,’ said Davey.

  ‘Who? Mr Romanov?’

  ‘Dad,’ said Davey. ‘He promised he’d be home for my birthday.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was a letter when I got home yester­day. Six more months, he said.’

  ‘Six months isn’t that bad,’ I said.

  ‘Not that bad? We’re talking about my dad. How would you know, anyway?’

  All of a sudden Davey realised his mistake. He stopped digging then turned my way.

  ‘Sorry, Lexie. I didn’t mean that. It’s just been so long. I suppose I’ve been building it up, looking forward to it, you know?

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mr Romanov came back with the feed and after we helped him mix it into the soil, he rested his shovel against the sleepers and clapped his hands.

  ‘Now, who will be first?’

  ‘You go,’ said Davey. ‘You did all the work.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Mr Romanov. ‘I cannot be the first.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is like the chicken bone.’

  Mr Romanov wasn’t making any sense. He raised his right hand up and wriggled his little finger in front of us.

  ‘You have the little bone, yes? The one to break?’

  ‘You mean, the wishbone?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, the wishbone. An old man should never be first because an old man does not grow. If he plants the first thing it will bring bad luck to the garden.’

  When I snuck a quick look at Davey he seemed just as confused as me. He shrugged his shoulders then looked back at Mr Romanov.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’m still not with you. What’s that got to do with a wishbone?’

  ‘It is a Russian thing,’ said Mr Romanov. ‘The first to plant must also make a wish.’

  ‘So it’s like a tradition, then?’

  ‘Yes, a tradition.’

  ‘In that case, it should be, Lexie,’ said Davey.

  After what he’d just told me about his dad, it didn’t seem right.

  ‘No, Davey, you go first.’

  ‘Lexie, you’re the one who . . .’

  ‘I insist, Davey. I’m a very unlucky person. Anyway, I want you to make the wish.’

  Davey knew not to argue. I may not have been as smart as him but when I set my mind to something, I usually got my way.

  ‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first.’

  After a short conference, we decided to position the rose bush and the sunflower in the middle of the garden bed with the herbs around the edges for easy picking. Davey began to dig the soil with his hands and after he’d made a medium-sized hole, he selected a
parsley bush from the pile on the ground beside him. Removing it from its plastic pot, he placed it in the hole and covered the roots with soil. Mr Romanov was standing ready with the watering can beside him. He handed it over and when Davey sprinkled the parsley with water he closed his eyes and made a wish.

  The three of us got busy after that. I had to climb up onto the dirt to get my rose and sunflower into the middle but soon we had everything planted and watered in. When we were finished, the three of us took a few steps back to get a better look at what we’d done and although the plants were only small, the garden looked incredible.

  As we stood there proudly admiring our work, I remembered something I’d grabbed from my blue suitcase before I left home. It seemed like the perfect time to give it to him, so I reached a hand into my pocket and pulled out Boris’s green collar. I walked over to Mr Romanov and stood in front of him then I brought my hand out slowly from behind my back.

  ‘I thought you might like this,’ I said.

  Mr Romanov looked down at the collar and took it from my hand.

  ‘I picked it up that day,’ I said. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right time. Anyway, I just thought . . .’

  After folding his fingers over the collar, Mr Romanov raised his head up and looked at me. He seemed confused for a moment. It was as if he was trying to work out who I was. Then something made him smile and he reached a hand out and touched the side of my face.

  ‘Nika,’ he said. ‘My beautiful girl.’

  For the next few days the three of us met on the rooftop after lunch. Besides watering them in, there wasn’t much we could do for the plants early on so we spent most of our time rugged up in the chairs we’d set up, reading books and magazines. On the third day I made a start on a book we had to read for school called Under a Shimmering Moon. A few chapters in, Davey caught me with puppy dog eyes.

  ‘Oh God, Lexie, not you too.’

  I made a mental note of where I was up to then looked up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Under a Shimmering Moon,’ said Davey. ‘It’s got to be the worst book I never finished.’