Sowing the Seeds of Love

by Tara Heavey

  Sowing the Seeds of Love

  Tara Heavey lives and works in County Kilkenny. This is her fourth novel.

  Sowing the Seeds of Love

  TARA HEAVEY

  PENGUIN

  IRELAND

  PENGUIN IRELAND

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  First published 2009

  1

  Copyright © Tara Heavey, 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-193810-3

  For my parents

  The Winter Garden

  And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing.

  Oscar Wilde, ‘The Selfish Giant’

  I’ve been here before in my dreams. This magical place, where the tunnels of roses go on and on. Every hue imaginable. Every scent known to humankind.

  Reds. Deep and dark. Familiar to me as my own blood. I bow my head and steal the scent, bury my nose in the folds. I’m taken aback as my senses flood – the confectionery aroma, the cola cubes of my youth, crammed with sugar and nostalgia.

  I move to the yellows. I cup one in my hands and the colours swirl and unfurl, capture and enrapture. Good enough to eat so I do, one petal at a time, the nectar of the gods.

  Then I’m immersed in the pinks, the petals smooth and satiny. When I crowd into them the scent is less heady but sweeter, more innocent; it stays with me longer. I brush the petals with my fingertips. It’s like touching the cheeks of a thousand babies. A bittersweet happiness wells up in me and I can’t stop touching them.

  The delicate, delectable whites, more subtle in fragrance but no less lovely. My beautiful flowery girls, which I can’t quite reach because my vision is fading and blurring, crumbling as reality dawns. Real life blots out everything. I wake newly bereft.

  1

  It was a sunny Saturday morning of freedom. The sky shone ice blue. Liam skipped alongside Aoife, his entire body grinning up at her. She looked down at her son, crimson scarf wrapped several times around his scrawny little neck, and couldn’t help but smile. It was that kind of day and Liam was that kind of boy. His childish antennae seemed to be tuning in to her new-found sense of optimism. It was good, this feeling. The first time she’d noticed it in she didn’t know how long, certainly since moving to Dublin.

  The upheaval had been tougher than she had anticipated or would ever admit. She put on the bright smile – the happy voice – when she spoke to her mother on the phone. But there were times when the isolation threatened to overwhelm her. It was as if she was looking at the world from behind glass.

  Her neighbours seemed impossible to get to know. She barely saw them, barricaded as they all were behind their front doors. Maybe it was just the wrong time of year – late October – dark evenings, autumn electricity in the air.

  But there was something different about today.

  Today felt like hope.

  ‘Here we are.’ She stopped and dragged Liam to a halt beside her.

  ‘This isn’t the sweetshop.’

  ‘It’s a different type of sweetshop. A very special one.’

  This pacified him and he allowed himself to be led into the shady interior. The lady behind the counter gave Aoife a nod of recognition and her heart rose even higher.

  The shop was like something you might expect to find in the old town of Barcelona. The type of store you might stumble across by accident, having become lost down a series of narrow, winding streets. You may have missed it if you hadn’t had to leap out of the path of a manic young Catalan on his moped. And what you would have missed. It certainly wasn’t the type of place Aoife would have expected to find in the outskirts of the city centre. But each day she was discovering anew how much Dublin had changed since her childhood visits. How much of the heart had been ripped out of the city. Georgian buildings knocked down to make way for fast-food outlets and coffee-shop chains. Faceless plate glass where graceful archways and doorways had once stood.

  Progress.

  This, at least, was a positive change.

  It was a treasure trove of goodies. They had gourmet sausages, artisan biscuits, organic salmon, farmyard cheeses, handcrafted chocolates, homemade preserves and luxury shortbread. Her mother would love an Irish porter cake. With some Irish breakfast tea in a presentation caddy. She herself wouldn’t mind the strawberries in Belgian chocolate. She could feel her mouth starting to water.

  And then there were the sweets. Jar upon jar and row upon row of nostalgia: gobstoppers, bonbons, apple sours, liquorice laces, chocolate mice, iced caramels, bullseyes, aniseed balls, flying saucers, pear drops, striped humbugs, butter humbugs, clove rocks… Only the candy cigarettes were missing. Presumably now illegal.

  Liam’s mouth was agape. ‘Can I have whatever I like?’

  ‘Tell me what you’d like first. You can have five things.’

  ‘Only five! I want –’

  ‘Do you want the sweets or not?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Liam clung to the back of Aoife’s leg and twisted himself from one foot to the other. ‘Those ones.’ He pointed decisively at the chocolate mice.

  ‘Just them? Nothing else?’

  He nodded vigorously and held up his hand, fingers outstretched. ‘Five.’

  ‘Five what?’

  ‘Five mouses.’

  ‘Five mouses what?’

  ‘Please.’

  One other customer stood between them and the counter, an older woman, perhaps seventy. Aoife couldn’t help noticing how well groomed she was. Such elegance. Such co-ordination. She looked down at her own navy fleece and jeans and felt ashamed. The woman was buying Earl Grey tea and fancy biscuits. How fitting. She examined the other’s face in profile. Her skin was like rice paper but her jawline barely sagged. ‘Well preserved’ was how Aoife’s father would have described her.

  The woman completed her purchase and left the shop, whereupon the lady behind the counter turned her attention to Aoife. The look she gave her was mischievous.
Like a kid with a secret. She leaned forward ever so slightly. ‘You’d never guess she murdered her own husband.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Perhaps she’d misheard.

  The woman inclined her head towards the door. ‘Mrs Prendergast. You’d never guess.’

  ‘You mean that old woman who was just in here?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘You mean she was convicted and everything?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Here the story floundered. ‘They never found the body. If you don’t have a body you can’t have a trial, apparently. But everyone around here knows she did it.’

  ‘How do they know?’

  ‘Well. There’s that garden of hers for a start. Hasn’t been touched since the day he disappeared forty years ago.’

  Aoife laughed. ‘I’d hardly call that proof.’

  The other woman’s face closed and Aoife regretted her words. She’d been enjoying the impromptu conversation.

  ‘What can I get you?’ The woman was suddenly businesslike.

  ‘I’ll have five chocolate mice, please. And two flying saucers for old times’ sake.’

  That night, Liam couldn’t sleep, so she let him into her bed. She knew she shouldn’t and that it was setting a bad precedent, but a large part of her didn’t care. The part that was empty and lonely and homeless. She needed the closeness as much as he did.

  Although there was an entire double bed in which to expand, his sleeping body invariably gravitated towards hers. She was lying on her back, staring into the dark, when – ‘Mummy.’

  She’d thought he was asleep. ‘Yes, Liam.’

  ‘If Daddy was still here, would I be allowed into your bed?’

  ‘Of course you would. Don’t you remember coming into bed with me and Daddy when you had a bad dream or when you were sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you did. All the time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They were quiet for a while.

  ‘Night-night, Mummy.’

  ‘Night-night, Liam.’

  A few breaths later he was asleep, his knees sticking into her lower back. As if he were trying to burrow back into her womb.

  2

  Monday morning, and a nine o’clock lecture. Not a good combination. As Aoife watched her students stroll casually into the lecture theatre at ten past the hour, yawning and scratching, she had to stifle the urge to yell. There was no point in starting without them and lecturing to an empty theatre. Having said that, when they arrived, they just sat there like a pack of zombies anyhow.

  Irish people were late for everything, she knew that. It still infuriated her. Maybe she was just too English.

  At last. A reasonable complement had arrived so she could start. She cleared her throat, hoping they’d shut up straight away. ‘Right. Today, people, we’re going to continue our discussion on the Romantic poets.’ She sensed some of them zoning out already. ‘John Keats. I’m sure many of you are familiar with his Odes.’

  If they were, they were keeping it to themselves.

  ‘“Ode to a Nightingale” and “Ode to a Grecian Urn” are the most famous, of course, but right now we’re going to focus on “Ode to Psyche”.’

  They looked positively thrilled at the prospect.

  ‘Can anyone tell me about the legend of Cupid and Psyche?’ She gazed out at the sea of young faces. Some were studying the blank pages of their notebooks, lest she suddenly spring on them. Others, with whom her words had barely registered, stared blankly into space, their faces grey from too much alcohol and not enough sleep. ‘Anyone?’

  No one. She sighed.

  ‘Venus, the goddess of love, becomes insanely jealous of this mortal woman called Psyche, who’s rumoured to be better-looking than she is. So she asks her son, Cupid, to shoot Psyche with one of his golden arrows and cause her to fall in love with the vilest creature on earth. The trouble is, as soon as Cupid sets eyes on Psyche, he falls in love with her himself. So, he abducts her and keeps her imprisoned in his walled garden. Not that she minds all that much, seeing as how he’s the best-looking winged man in mythology.’

  This got a few appreciative smiles from some of the girls.

  ‘The image of the walled garden is interesting, because right throughout the Victorian era – an era in which the legend of Cupid and Psyche was rehashed many times – it was used as a symbol of female sexuality.’

  Some of the boys seemed amused – or was it bemused? – as she related this fact. As if she were far too old to be concerning herself with such matters. She supposed that, technically, she was old enough to be their mother – if she had given birth in her teens. Which was hard to wrap her head around, given that Liam was hardly more than a baby still.

  A new sound was emanating from the back of the theatre, unmistakable in its rise and fall.

  Someone had started to snore.

  3

  They were on another of their weekend expeditions, getting to know their new neighbourhood, when Aoife saw something she hadn’t witnessed in all her time living in London.

  ‘Mummy, what’s that man doing to that lady?’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ. Hey!’ she yelled at the height of her voice, and started to run.

  A woman was being dragged along the pavement by a younger man. More accurately, he was attempting to relieve her of her handbag and she was hanging on for dear life. The man, clearly startled by Aoife’s intervention, let go of the bag and sprinted in the opposite direction. She reached the woman and crouched beside her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Do I look all right?’ She pulled herself up into a sitting position.

  Aoife was as surprised by her response as she was by her upper-class English accent. And even more surprised to discover that she was the woman she’d seen the previous week in the Good Food Store. Mrs Prendergast, wasn’t it? She held out her hand. The older woman ignored it and struggled to her feet, unaided but shaken.

  ‘I’ll take you home. Where do you live?’

  ‘There’s absolutely no need.’

  ‘I insist.’ Aoife took hold of Mrs Prendergast’s elbow, but the latter gave her a look of such ferocity that she withdrew her hand immediately. No wonder her neighbours thought her capable of murder.

  ‘I’m quite able to walk, thank you very much.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll ring the police, then.’ Aoife reached for her mobile.

  ‘You will not. I have no desire for a plethora of PC Plods to be trampling all over my carpets. I’ve got my bag and all my belongings. I just want to put the whole unpleasant business behind me. So, if you don’t mind…’

  ‘Actually, I do. I’m walking you home and that’s the end of it.’

  Aoife held her own as Mrs Prendergast attempted to stare her down, her eyes unnaturally bright. Eventually, she snorted and began to cross the street. Aoife followed a few paces behind, hand in hand with a wide-eyed Liam.

  ‘Where are we going, Mummy?’

  ‘We’re walking this lady home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make sure she gets there safely.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Will there be any little boys there?’

  ‘I don’t know, Liam. I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘But why –’

  ‘Here. Have a sweetie.’

  Mrs Prendergast had turned into the driveway of an elegant old red-brick. A corner house.

  Aoife hoisted Liam up the steps to the plum-coloured front door and stood behind the tall, slim, almost ramrod-straight figure. She imagined her collapsing the moment she was alone.

  Mrs Prendergast stood inside the hall now, facing her. ‘As you can see, I’m home in one piece.’ She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Would you like me to call a doctor for you?’

  ‘No, I would not. Now, goodbye.’

  The door was already closing when Liam started to run on the spot. ‘Pee-pee, Mummy. I need to do a pee-pee.’r />
  Oh, crap. She looked at Mrs Prendergast. ‘I don’t suppose…’

  Mrs Prendergast rolled her eyes theatrically and opened the door just wide enough for Liam to dart through.

  She wasn’t seriously going to leave Aoife standing there? Ungracious old cow.

  ‘I strongly suggest you let me in too, unless you want piss all over your floor.’

  Mrs Prendergast glared at her, then flung the door wide open.

  ‘Thank you. Where…?’

  ‘Up the stairs and on your left.’ Her voice was like fine bone china.

  As Aoife ran up the stairs, two at a time, dragging Liam in her wake, she felt a pang of guilt. This poor lady had just been mugged and here she was being mean to her. But, by God, she was so antagonistic.

  The interior of the house was beautiful, from the graceful curve of the mahogany banister to the jewelled patterns that the stained glass threw on the burnished wooden floor. Safely inside the bathroom, Aoife stared absently at the pure white blind as Liam tinkled into the toilet. She inched it away from the window and found, to her surprise, that she was looking down at the remnants of a walled garden, paths, now overgrown, around the edges and dissecting the centre in a criss-cross pattern, stunted old apple trees choking with ivy and a tumbledown archway. Aoife imagined it as it might have been in its heyday, swathed in rambling roses. Soft pink, she thought. And the body of Mr Prendergast reclining in his shallow grave…

  ‘Mummy, I can’t reach the towel.’

  She handed it to him and replaced it when he’d finished, trying but failing to leave it exactly as they’d found it.

  Mrs Prendergast was waiting for them by the front door. Quite pointedly, it had to be said. Aoife would have loved a good nose around. A door leading off the hallway stood ajar, offering a tantalizing view of a room crammed with antiques. But Mrs Prendergast wasn’t offering any guided tours: instead, she was holding the door open, nice and wide.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Prendergast. We’re sorry for troubling you. What do you say, Liam?’