by Tara Heavey
‘Why should I?’
‘You just seem surprised.’
‘Only because I didn’t know you had a daughter.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘So I see.’ She smiled at him and he averted his eyes.
‘Are you using those loppers, Aoife?’
‘No. Work away.’
He had this way of saying her name. Other Irish people had it too. In England, once people had come to terms with its strangeness, they pronounced it ‘Eefa’. Flat. But here, the pronunciation was softer. As if every vowel mattered.
Coming across other Aoifes had been a novelty. As a child, she had despised her name. Nobody could spell it, nobody could pronounce it and it marked her out as different. But as she became older, it made her special. Unique. Until she had come to Ireland where she was one of many. She had felt quite put out at all those other women stealing her name.
‘I like your hair,’ said Emily, wandering by with a wheelbarrow.
‘Thanks.’
They smiled at each other. They’d been having the odd conversation of late, mainly about books, and Aoife felt she was making progress. Emily still wore her sadness like a cloak, but sometimes you could find an opening. She watched her trundle the wheelbarrow along the path. Then her heart caught. ‘Liam!’ She began to run. ‘Liam!’ she screamed. ‘Get down!’
The others stopped what they were doing and stared, first at her and then at Liam – hanging upside down by his knees from a branch of the apple tree. She reached him. ‘Jesus Christ, come here!’ She dragged him off the branch, turned him the right way up and hugged him. ‘You’re all right, you’re all right,’ she muttered over and over again, kissing the top of his head repeatedly.
‘Ow. You’re hurting me.’ Liam squirmed.
She released him reluctantly.
‘What’s wrong? What happened?’
‘We were only pretending to be bats, Daddy,’ said Kathy, giving Aoife a resentful look.
They were all gathered around now, staring at her. She realized, with embarrassment, that she’d overreacted. ‘Sorry, everyone, it was nothing. I just got a fright, that’s all. I thought he was going to fall.’
They murmured and returned to their tasks. Mentally Aoife kicked herself. Just when she’d thought she was getting back to normal something like this happened to remind her that she was still mad, after all.
That Saturday afternoon was magical. The sun shone magnificently. It was the first day they’d been able to wear T-shirts – apart from Mrs Prendergast who wore a white broderie-anglaise short-sleeved blouse. The robin had found a mate and they’d decided to build a nest. When they didn’t have twigs in their beaks, they sang their heads off. Seth had introduced some frogspawn into the pond earlier that spring and the water was alive with tadpoles. Liam and Kathy were forever capturing them in jam jars and peering at them, willing their little froggy legs to appear. Harriet, the fat, old retriever, snuffled around, wagging her geriatric tail, eventually flopping down in a panting heap on the newly planted herbs.
Some days they drew quite a crowd, passers-by staring in at the gate pausing in their rush-hour rush. Occasionally somebody would call one of them over and ask what they were doing.
Defying logic?
They had a definite plan now and the planting was gathering momentum. Each gardener had his or her own tasks and they had divided the garden into four quadrants: the kitchen garden, the rose garden, the orchard and what they called the secret garden, because Emily wouldn’t tell them what she was doing in it. At first Aoife thought it was a cottage garden, but there seemed to be more to it than that. Seth cared for the pond and was, as he said, a general dogsbody. He was also in charge of wheelbarrow rides. Liam and Kathy would get in and he would zoom up and down the paths, making racing-car noises, swerving just in time to avoid trees and pretending to tip them into the pond. The children would giggle wildly. It made Aoife’s heart ache to see how much her son loved the male attention.
Mrs Prendergast was less impressed with the great wheelbarrow races. ‘Must you make that infernal racket?’
‘Why don’t you hop in yourself, Mrs P, give it a lash?’
Seth tilted the barrow towards her. She gave him a withering look – she didn’t have much time for him. Aoife imagined she thought him uncouth.
Aoife was mainly in charge of the kitchen garden, although ‘in charge’ wasn’t the right way to put it. The arrangement was more relaxed than that. But she spent more time there than anyone else did. There was something about growing food that appealed to the practical side of her nature. What could be more fundamental to life? She liked to feel she wasn’t squandering her time. Of course she made mistakes constantly, not having done it before. Take the tomatoes. She was only transplanting them from the seed trays to their little pots now. She knew she’d left it too late and that they’d be lagging behind, as she pressed down the compost with her bare fingers and sprayed the roots. ‘Grow, little ones, grow,’ she whispered, then looked around furtively to make sure that no one had heard her. She had made a start on the green beans too, erecting cane pyramids, anticipating their little orange flowers. Kneeling in the mud, she felt a ridiculous level of contentment. She didn’t hear Emily come up behind her.
‘I’m ready now.’
Aoife jumped. ‘Emily, I didn’t see you there.’ Had she heard her talking to the plants?
‘I’m ready to tell you now.’
‘What. You mean…?’
‘To tell you what I’ve been planning for my part of the garden.’
‘Oh.’ Aoife scrambled to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I didn’t want to say anything before because I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out.’
‘That’s okay.’ She searched the girl’s face. She’d never seen her so animated.
‘Anyway, what I was hoping to make was a sensory garden.’ She seemed to be seeking Aoife’s approval.
‘Go on.’
‘Imagine a garden that was a total feast for the senses. You enter here, honeysuckle on one side, jasmine on the other. I was going to ask Seth to help me put up a pergola.’
She looked at Aoife, who nodded at her to continue.
‘We could put a little swing seat underneath. A person could sit there and just absorb the fragrance. Then I want to put a pebble path here. You walk along barefoot first thing in the morning. It’s a reflexology thing. At the end of the path there’s a bubble fountain – the soothing sound of water. I’m going to hang wind chimes from the branch of that tree and I’ll plant some tall, ornamental grasses to the right. The breeze will rustle them. And colour. I want lots of colour.’
Aoife said nothing as she watched Emily’s hand movements become more expansive.
‘A green area – like the green room in a theatre. Lots of lovely, relaxing foliage. Then pink – to relieve tension – a blossoming cherry, I think. Crimsons and golds and coppers to raise energy levels. Think daffodils and tulips in the spring. Wallflowers! Maybe Liam could plant me a row of sunflowers. And then we have to have some herbs.’ She was gabbling now. ‘Lavender lining that path – French lavender. It has a better fragrance than English. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘And I want to place troughs of herbs on either side of a bench right there.’ She looked at Aoife expectantly.
‘Is that it?’
‘Oh, and fairy-lights around the pergola beams. I’ll hang coloured lanterns from the bushes and plant a camomile lawn. That’s it. For now. What do you think?’
‘What do I think?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you’re either a madwoman or a genius.’
She saw doubt cloud the girl’s features and amended her words quickly. ‘What I really mean is I think you’re inspired. A true artist.’
‘Really?’ Her cheeks bloomed.
‘Yes, really. Only, Emily, you know as well as I do that the garden probably isn’t –’
‘Don’t say it!’ Emily held up a
hand as if warding off a curse, startling Aoife with the ferocity of her emotion. ‘I can’t bear to think about it. The garden deserves…’ she searched for the right words ‘… one last hurrah. And we’re the ones who have to give it to her.’
Aoife liked that. A ‘last hurrah’. Yes, why not? Why the hell not? ‘Okay, Emily. Do your worst.’
Seth was putting up an archway for Mrs Prendergast’s roses. She was supervising, with much derision. ‘Not like that. Look at it, for God’s sake. It’s all lopsided.’
‘Do you want to have a go?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Not with my arthritis.’
‘Well, would you mind letting me get on with it, then?’
‘What? And let you mess it up?’
‘Hi there.’ Aoife joined them.
‘Great. Another woman to tell me what to do.’ But when he looked at her, his eyes were smiling. She couldn’t get a handle on his eyes. The colour, that was. They seemed to change in accordance with the landscape. Today they mirrored the sky in their blueness.
Mrs Prendergast sighed theatrically. ‘I could murder a cup of tea.’
‘Would you like me to –’
‘No, thank you, Aoife.’ Mrs Prendergast still didn’t allow any of them into her home. They had to use the toilet in the Good Food Store, apart from Liam and Kathy who were allowed to go in the nettles, tinkling and squatting accordingly. ‘I suppose you want a mug of that revolting coffee,’ she said to Seth.
‘That’d be marvellous, Mrs P.’
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘Well, if you insist on not telling me your name…’
Mrs Prendergast snorted as she walked off to prepare their elevenses.
‘She loves me really.’ Seth grinned.
‘You know, I’m beginning to think she does. She just hasn’t realized it yet.’
He recommenced hammering the archway into place, Aoife handing him nails at intervals, working in silence. She was reminded again of how much she enjoyed his presence in the garden. Just to watch the way he carried out his tasks. To be with him. After a time, she sat on the ground, her arms wrapped around her knees. She wanted to know more about him.
‘Kathy seems a very well-adjusted little girl.’
Instinctively Seth looked across at his daughter, who appeared to be teaching Liam how to make daisy chains. She took the lead in most of their games. ‘She’s great.’
‘She’s a credit to you and her mother.’
He shrugged. ‘Thanks. She’s a tough little thing, really. She’s been through a lot.’
‘Like what?’ Aoife instantly wished she could take it back. She didn’t know how far she could push it. Seth seemed such an odd mixture of confidence and reticence. He was standing upright now, his hands on his hips. He looked at Aoife as if he was working out whether or not he could trust her.
‘You know her mother and I are separated?’
‘No, I didn’t. I thought… well, no, I didn’t know.’
There was a silence. Seth appeared to be examining the mud on his boots.
‘Does she see her mother?’
‘Oh, yes. God, yes. She spends part of the week with her and part of it with me. It’s just a bit confusing for Kathy at the moment.’
‘Is there another –’
‘Tea, everybody!’
18
It was quite a burden being an Irish teenager called Seth Rosenberg in the 1980s. He kind of stood out among the Seamus Brennans and the Paddy Moloneys. But his bald penis gave him rarity value in his twenties.
Seth liked girls and they liked him. He didn’t know why this should be so, but he was glad it was. He had been accused more than once of having ‘a way with the laydeez’. He didn’t know about that. All Seth knew was that he was himself and that seemed to work. His sense of security came from several sources, not least his parents’ unshakeable, immovable, unstoppable love for him. His mother adored her two boys with every ounce of her considerable being. Although Seth knew that it was him she loved best. Maybe his brother felt that too. It was a thought that had only occurred to him of late – as had many other previously unthought-of thoughts. He supposed that was what happened when your world got turned on its head.
His relationship with his father had been more turbulent. While his mother’s love was pure indulgence, Uri’s love was born of discipline – he was determined that his sons would make something of themselves. Although as it became obvious that Seth would never travel down an academic route, he had had the wisdom to let him go his own way, serving his apprenticeship as a gardener and eventually building up his own successful landscaping business.
Growing up, Seth had found his father’s dark moods oppressive and had had to get away from him. Neither broody nor introspective himself, he couldn’t handle either trait in another.
And he didn’t want to think about it.
But as he’d got older, he’d deepened in understanding and his impatience with his father’s faith had matured into respect.
So. His parents’ love. His innate likeability. His popularity with women. The knowledge he’d had since boyhood that he wanted to work with plants. The successful realization of his ambition. It could have been said that Seth had led a charmed life. Of course he’d had his bad days. But, really, they were few and far between.
Seth was twenty-nine when he met Megan. He fell hard – harder than he would have thought possible. He’d assumed he’d been in love before but now he understood that he’d only ever been in lust. He’d said, ‘I love you,’ several times. He hadn’t meant to lie to those women, but the moment he met Megan, he knew he’d been lying all along. She was pure, golden, unadulterated gorgeousness. She bowled him over.
The night they met had seemed inauspicious enough. He’d been in the pub with the lads. She was the friend of a friend of somebody’s girlfriend. The link was tenuous, but enough to merit an introduction. He’d wanted to say something to make her laugh but he’d sat there like a fool. She had been kind, bailing him out, asking him questions about himself until he’d regained the power of speech. But he’d never really recovered. Not from Megan.
They’d got married almost two years to the day after their first meeting. As he watched her walk up the aisle towards him, he felt as if his heart was going to explode.
Had it all been a lie?
* * *
‘It’s so nice living with your best friend,’ said Megan. She was sitting up in bed, propped up against Seth’s pillow and her own. They weren’t long back from their honeymoon – one of their first weekends of married life. She was watching Seth as he shaved in the en-suite. He stopped scraping the white foam off his jawline with his new razor and gazed back at the reflection in the mirror. She looked so incredibly contented. He padded out to her, fresh from his shower, white towel draped around his waist, and stood over her, dripping foam. ‘Am I your best friend?’ he asked.
‘You know you are.’ She patted the space beside her and he sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘You’re my best friend too and I love living with you,’ he said.
She smiled at him and he admired her adorable dimples.
‘God, you’re gorgeous,’ he said, reaching to stroke her cheek. She leaned her face into his palm. He still couldn’t believe at times that he was permitted to touch her. But he was. He even had the papers to prove it. He wiped the rest of his shaving foam off with the edge of his towel and bent to kiss her mouth, softly at first. Then he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her deeply. He opened his eyes just in time to see her look of panic. And even if he hadn’t seen it, he’d felt her pull back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t you want…?’
‘It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve planned a special breakfast for you.’
‘We can have it later.’
‘I’m starving.’ She flung back the covers and sprang out of bed. He watched as she put on her dressing-gown and drew the belt tig
ht around her waist. ‘I’m making bacon and scrambled eggs. Your favourite. And freshly squeezed orange juice.’
‘Sounds great.’
She kissed his cheek and he listened to her dainty clop-clopping down the stairs. She was right. They were best friends.
Except he already had a best friend. His name was Barry and he’d known him since he was six. But he didn’t want to have sex with Barry. He wanted to have sex with his wife. But he was beginning to form the distinct impression that his wife didn’t want to have sex with him.
They’d abstained before marriage. He felt stupid admitting it now. It had been her idea. ‘Imagine how special our wedding night will be,’ she’d said.
And he had gone along with it. Because he would have done anything for Megan to keep her happy. To keep her. But the wedding night had come and gone and he had yet to see a marked change in her response. Sure, they did it sometimes, but he always had to initiate it and, hard as he tried, he could never shake the feeling that she was just letting him do things to her. It didn’t feel as if they were doing it together. Making love. He would have laughed once at this phrase, but now he understood. He loved her. She loved him. What was the problem?
A couple of months into their marriage, he decided to broach the subject. They were in bed. Seth was lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, his head resting in his palm. Megan was sitting bolt upright as he ran his fingers delicately up and down her forearm. She looked almost virginal in her white nightgown. ‘Is something wrong, Meg?’
She looked surprised. ‘Wrong? No. What do you mean?’
‘You never seem to want to have sex.’ He tried carefully to read the expression on her face. Uncomfortable, maybe. As if she wished he wouldn’t bring up such a distasteful matter.
‘We do have sex.’
‘Yes, but not very often. And I feel like I’m – I don’t know – forcing you or something.’
‘That’s just silly.’
‘Maybe it is. But that’s the way I feel.’
Neither said anything for a while. He noticed she’d pulled her arm away. ‘Don’t you fancy me any more?’ He hated himself for saying it, feeling pathetic and unmanly.