Walled Garden

by Catherine Dunne

  At this time of year, the screen of trees at the end wall obliterated almost completely all signs of the new houses. Of course, they weren’t new any more. New almost forty years ago, but for Alice, they still intruded on to the landscape of her memory. She and Jack had resented those new houses: their upper windows were prying eyes into the sheltered intimacy of their family. The two oaks, planted long before Jack’s parents had bought the house, and the ageing apple tree, no longer any good for bearing fruit, all looked in some way different. The garden looked almost expectant, poised for change.

  Shrub, she suddenly thought. What a funny word. It was one of those she had lost recently; it had strayed away from her, like a disobedient child. Ever since its return, she had regarded it suspiciously, in case it eluded her again. She could no longer take it for granted; it had acquired a strangeness in its absence, and had still not quite recovered its old familiarity. She could still see its size and shape, the curl of the letters as she would write them. It was a surprising word, spoken aloud – bare and functional, straggly, blunt like winter. It bore no relationship to the extravagance of the growth spreading out in front of her. Clematis, Cistus, Hebe. Hypericum, Lavandula, Olearia. Liquid words, green and lush, darkness-scented. Passiflora, Potentilla: vibrant-sounding and vigorous as their colours. And then the dreamy, floaty ones: Hemerocallis, Nymphaea, Mimulus. That part of the back garden nearest the house was a gently undulating carpet of shades of purples and whites, blues and yellows, defying the eye’s need for gravity as it seemed to sweep upwards, blurring the harshness of the line between the boundary wall and the ground below. Her eye was drawn back down again, as usual, to the pool of still, reedy water, off-centre and irregularly shaped, with its shock of cup-like, crimson flowers. When she’d first come home with baby James, Jack had proudly taken both of them into his July garden and shown them the pond, newly dug, carefully lined and filled with Nymphaea ‘James Brydon’. He had been bright-eyed, almost child-like in his pleasure that he had found a water plant to celebrate the naming of his new son. Throughout the years, he had added to his garden with the slips and bulbs provided in the main by the people whose houses he painted; it had added to his pleasure that so much beauty had been created for nothing. Alice had often thought that he derived a special delight from the cuttings he pinched from gardens when he had failed to cajole the owner, or when he simply hadn’t bothered to ask, sure that nobody was looking. The majority of the great plan had happened before Elizabeth was born. The final rhododendron, the one which bore her name, had been planted one September, and obediently produced large trusses of scarlet flowers just in time for her arrival, early the following April.

  The loud click of the kettle’s automatic switch drew Alice away from the window. She reached for the yellow teapot on the dresser shelf. She pulled her eyes away from the bits and pieces of china arrayed there, and made her way deliberately back to the sink. She filled the teapot right up, and poured milk from the carton into her little white and gold china jug. She couldn’t bear cartons or bottles on the table; she hadn’t been brought up to that. Jack had been much more easygoing about such things, but he’d bowed willingly to her preference. So had James. Elizabeth had fought it. But then, Elizabeth had fought her on just about everything.

  Alice had no idea how long she’d been sitting at the kitchen table when the phone rang. She jumped, the silence of the house shattered, the remembered years scattering away like disturbed mice into the safety of the gradually darkening kitchen corners. She blinked in shock a few times, and stood, holding on to the back of her chair for a moment, as though planting her feet firmly in the present again. She reached for the phone, already knowing it was James.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alice?’

  His voice was anxious, as though he didn’t really believe it was she who had answered.

  ‘Hello, James.’

  ‘I tried calling at three, but there was no one home. How did you get on?’

  ‘I didn’t get back until after four. I’ve been . . . in the garden ever since; it was such a lovely afternoon. I got on fine. Absolutely nothing to worry about.’

  Alice made the decision even as she spoke. She hadn’t yet given any conscious thought to what she was going to tell her son, but now she felt sure that she did not want him to know. It was her knowledge, and she wasn’t yet ready to give it away. Sharing it had the power to make her crumble, to make her descend into sickness, into the indignity of the invalid. What she’d been told today by doctors wearing white coats and grave expressions, she hadn’t needed to be told. She had already known it herself for some time.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘She. Dr Turner is a she.’

  ‘What did she say, then?’

  Alice smiled to herself. Dear James. Not even a trace of irritation in his voice. Just concern, and love. And the ever-present undercurrent of anxiety.

  ‘All the tests came back clear. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just suffering from the forgetfulness of old age.’

  Alice kept her voice deliberately light, pre-empting the questions she knew James would still want to ask. He had always craved her reassurance.

  ‘But what about . . . what you said felt like confusion?’

  Alice’s tone became firmer. James had never been one to confront her. He would back off if he sensed no weakness on her part, none of the shocked vulnerability of illness and old age which he had been expecting.

  ‘I’m nearly seventy-six, James. I’m not as sprightly as I used to be. That’s all. It’s not Alzheimer’s, my blood pressure’s fine and everything else is as it should be. For my age.’

  Alice stopped. Just the right amount of sharpness in her tone. Now he would appease her. She could hear the smile in his voice as he answered.

  ‘Did they know what a tough old bird they were dealing with?’

  ‘Absolutely. And this tough old bird has just got to keep on doing what she’s doing. Dr Crowley will get the detailed results in a week or so, and I’ve to go and see her then.’

  The subject was closed. Alice waited. Whatever James said next would tell whether she had pulled it off.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. I still wish you had let me go with you, though.’

  There was a pause. Alice’s tone was gentler now. She could afford to be.

  ‘I appreciate the offer, you know I do. But you know how much I hate a fuss.’

  It was a well-aired topic between them. She knew James’s feelings; she also knew that he was far too softhearted to bully her.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m just glad it all worked out. Do you want to come over for dinner? I can collect you.’

  ‘No, I won’t, thanks. Not tonight. I’m a little tired after walking around town.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Alice could almost hear him kicking himself for what he would perceive as his lack of sensitivity. She spoke again, quickly.

  ‘Why don’t you come to me for lunch tomorrow? Have you time?’

  Yes, he had. He’d be there by one. Alice kept him talking a little longer, asked about the children, about Olive. She was sure that he was satisfied, finally, that he wouldn’t want to probe any further. She was tired by the time the conversation ended. Lying seemed to require an awful lot of effort. But she needed to gather her strength around her; she needed the time alone to absorb what was happening to her. And, at the same time, it was more than that – time of itself would never be enough. She needed what her grandchildren referred to as ‘space’. She had never quite understood until today what they all meant by that. She did not want to be reduced by James’s concern into a patient; she did not want the humiliation of seeing herself transformed before his eyes into an old, helpless woman. It wasn’t just to spare his feelings, although it was partly that, too. It was more a need to be still, to reflect, to draw together all the different strands of herself, all the loops and twists of possibility and probability which had unravelled before her all that af
ternoon.

  Alice felt that she was dying in small steps. At first, it had seemed like an ordinary forgetfulness, like something being on the tip of your tongue, but the something had become more elusive than formerly. The first time it had happened, she hadn’t been at all frightened, merely bemused. She had held the sticky crimson globes in her palm, examining them closely, moving them around with her finger as though she could somehow discover their name by closer inspection. But the word simply would not come. She knew that she was familiar with them, that she had used them in her Christmas cakes since God was a boy. But their name kept slipping away from her. The mixture was ready; they needed to be added to the pale creamy mass of butter, sugar and eggs that already filled her baking bowl. The word was in her head, she could feel it there, wandering around aimlessly, lost somewhere among the complex circuitry. Suddenly, like a tiny explosion, it came to her: cherries. She had laughed out loud in relief. She’d realized that her forehead was damp; the effort, and the frustration of trying to remember had actually made her sweat. And yet, it wasn’t quite remembering; that didn’t really describe it. It was more like searching for a sense of recognition. It was as though she had never seen cherries before; that even if she had remembered the word, it would no longer fit. She felt as if a whole new language might need to be learned, with rules and grammar to suit the new strangeness of the previously familiar.

  She had gone and pulled the little transparent plastic container out of the pedal bin in the kitchen, just to make absolutely sure. There it was, written cheerfully in red: Glacé Cherries. For the rest of that afternoon, Alice had murmured the words over and over again to herself, capturing them on her tongue and in her ear, making sure that they could never escape her again. And she hadn’t forgotten them since: she saw them now, large and bold, shackled to the screen of her memory. But she had forgotten others instead, and the frantic search for them had finally distressed her so much that she had grown urgent in her need to know, to find out why. And now she knew. Old age is a terrible thing, she had once confided to James. But she had said it brightly, not really complaining, just ruefully resigned to the inevitability of it all. That was before she had seen the prospect of the oblivion which now yawned before her: physical infirmity she could take, she had no choice, but the obliteration of herself, her memories, filled her with terror. Much more than dying, she feared the incremental loss of the past and present lives which made up the person called Alice. That was now the nameless, formless future she felt condemned to. Strike, stricken, stroke. She did not want to become someone who would look at her children from behind vacant eyes and ask: ‘Do I know you?’

  Stop it, she told herself severely. She stood up from the kitchen table, lifting the tea-cosy a little, and patting the side of the china teapot. Cold. Perhaps she should have something to eat. Or read her book. Or go to bed early. Alice felt suddenly restless, and the sensation disturbed her: she had never been one for indecision. She must do something. She pushed herself into the familiarity of her night-time routine. Doing what was normal at this time of the evening seemed to hold out the best chance of making her feel more secure. Midway through checking the bolts on the back door, she stopped and opened the door instead, stepping outside into the heavily scented garden. The hidden jasmine and evening stock brought with them a wave of memory. James and Elizabeth as children, sitting on this back step, shelling peas from Jack’s vegetable plot. James and Elizabeth giggling as they spooned ice cream into tall glasses, topping them up with fizzy lemonade, shrieking as the frothy mixture bubbled suddenly up and over. James and Elizabeth on the swing—. An idea was slowly beginning to form in Alice’s mind. It was tentative at first, composed of a jumble of sepia-coloured scenes and memories like still photographs. It was as though the sudden blast of perfume had released the genie from the bottle, and her children’s lives tumbled out in disarray all around her.

  The very simplicity of the idea delighted and startled her at first. She would write to them. While she still had a firm enough grasp of language, while she was still sharp and self-sufficient, she would write to her children. She didn’t know how much longer she had before everything familiar was wiped out. The doctors with their sheaves of notes couldn’t tell her that, nobody could tell her that. The recent series of small, relentless strokes that she had suffered had already stolen bits of her life from her, spiriting it away, little by little. Perhaps that’s the way it would be – small steps towards obliteration. Or, if she were lucky, a thunderbolt; either way, she was on borrowed time. She was filled with a sense of urgency and purpose. Now she had work to do.

  Alice locked and bolted the back door. Before she forgot, she went into the hall and punched the four-number code into the alarm. James had insisted on its installation, had even carried it out himself. She’d fought it at first, but not too hard. And now, today, when she was feeling more vulnerable, she welcomed the reassuring wink of its tiny red eye.

  She went back into the kitchen and pulled out an old notebook from the dresser drawer. It was a bit dogeared, but it would do for tonight. She wanted to write things down now, quickly, before they swam away from her again: she knew only too well the strength of the undertow. Tomorrow, she decided, she would buy proper writing paper, a nice fountain pen, a hard-back notebook. It would be a treat, something to look forward to. There were suddenly so many things she needed to say, and the need now felt like never before: new, urgent. Alice knew that she had never been much good at talking about feelings; with James, that hadn’t seemed to matter. There was an instinctual understanding between the two of them: they shared a secret language, like twins. He had stopped calling her ‘Mother’ in his late teens, and it had felt right. They were friends, equals, soulmates. But Elizabeth was a different matter. With Elizabeth, Alice had always felt out of her depth. Even as a child, she had pulled away from her mother, always swimming in the opposite direction, against the tide. She had silently demanded a response which Alice was unable to give. Her helplessness in the face of her own child had made Alice anxious and frustrated. How much more of her did that little girl want?

  It seemed that all through Elizabeth’s childhood, from the time she was four or five, misunderstandings, exasperation and shouting had been the main tools of communication between them. And like all unsuitable tools, they were ineffective. At their best, they were blunt, clumsy instruments that accidentally wounded one or both of them. At worst, the blows they dealt were pointed, cruel, deadly in their accuracy. All that either of them had ever understood was the sharpness of the other’s anger. Perhaps, when there was at least an absence of conflict, she might now be able to find the words to reach her daughter. The busy little figure that Alice had imagined with such glass-like clarity this afternoon in the garden, had returned to her with an intense, restless insistence. She showed no intention of going away; she wanted her mother to speak. Alice hoped that writing to her would be easier than talking. She hoped, too, that she was going to have enough time to make her peace. God alone knew how long she had left. Now, she was going to give Him a run for his money.

  ‘Woodvale’

  28th July 1999

  My dear Elizabeth—

  Alice paused for a moment. Should she call her Beth or Elizabeth? She had never really approved of her daughter’s shortening her name. It had been just another part of the endlessly defiant teenage years and, at the time, Alice had let it slide rather than do battle again. There had been far too many other things to fight about, then. But what about now? Should she soften? Would it be right to give in? Alice shook her head impatiently. What a waste of time. This was about her, these were her letters, her memories. She could not imagine her daughter properly without her rightful name. ‘Elizabeth’ conjured up all sorts of early images, tender pictures of babyhood. For a moment, Alice felt that the warm, bath-smelling little body was beside her again. She used to love stroking the little dimpled hands, the fat legs silky with Johnson’s Baby Powder. ‘Beth’, on the other hand, wa
s all the excesses of sullenness and rebellion, all the spikiness and eye-rolling defiance of adolescence. Alice decided to leave the opening as it was. She hoped that this was going to get easier.

  I’d like to think that you’ll remember me as I am, right this minute, sitting at the kitchen table. Can you see me? I keep seeing you, but not as you are now – I see you as a tiny baby, or a toddler. And it’s very strange, not being able to imagine when and where you, the grown-up, will hold these pages in your hands. It’s a bit like posting letters from the past into the future – address unknown. But I feel that there are many things between us which I cannot leave unsaid, and it feels urgent to me that I say them now. This afternoon, in the back garden, I had such clear pictures of you and James as children that they took my breath away. It was almost as though you were both there beside me, sitting on the back step. I could even see the little tartan rug, folded over three times, which I used to make you sit on, so that you wouldn’t get a cold in your kidneys. Do you know the rug I’m talking about? It’s still here, in your old room, under the eiderdown at the foot of your bed. It’s been there for years, an extra blanket for your cold feet: you used to suffer a lot from chilblains. Some of the memories of you, Elizabeth, were particularly insistent, and I want to tell you about them. I need to write quickly, in case all that I saw this afternoon slips away from me again. Something tells me that these memories are very important – I have the feeling that there is a key somewhere in there, something to help me understand why you and I were never as close as we should have been, not real ‘mother-and-daughter’ close. Maybe I expected too much of you, of both of us, but I have an uneasy feeling that we have been cheated of each other. I want to write about all of this to you now, before anything happens to me.