The Garden of Lost Memories

by Ruby Hummingbird

  In the middle of nowhere! I finally wrote back on Facebook, as if I were joking. As if I didn’t know what Dad was really asking.

  I watched the little message send, shutting off the phone quickly, this time not wanting a reply, sticking the phone back where it belonged.

  I could hear Mum downstairs fixing us something for dinner – baked beans again, probably – and bit my lip. I knew my dad, knew he wouldn’t give up. And it was my fault: I had started this.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ELSIE

  The next few days were a mess of missed timings, lost hours, afternoons spent in the garden, her neck burning as she bent over, barely touching the soil. Jobs mounted up, weeds grew: the garden was becoming out of control once more.

  The worst thing about it was that Elsie didn’t care. The garden was no longer a comfort, no longer a place she could go to be with her memories of the past, the happy ones she chose to recall. Now all she saw was the spot under the tree where the soil had been disturbed, where the tin had been found, the secrets of her past unearthed.

  Worse than that, she missed Billy in the garden, noticed his absence as she glanced across to an empty flower bed, a neglected fence. The grass grew taller, needing cutting. When she ventured inside she strained to hear him through the walls: a clunk, some footsteps, a low voice.

  She missed his face, his easy smile, the exasperated roll of his eyes when he explained something she didn’t understand: what FaceTiming meant, that a TikTok was not the same as a Tic Tac. She missed his solemn expression when she taught him something he didn’t know how to do, making meringues, his face when she showed him all the fruit in the freezer, all picked from her trees. She missed his stories, like the time he and Liam got stuck up a tree chasing a squirrel in the park, even the sad stories where he needed to be heard, missed being the person he confided in.

  Yet she couldn’t seem to find a way, or a will, to fix it. Samantha had been so angry and she convinced herself she should stay away. If she talked to him she would have to explain and she knew she didn’t have the words, couldn’t find them, still grappling with the things he had thrown into motion once more. She hadn’t been able to deal with it for decades, why would it change now?

  The chalkboard was bare, no energy even to write up the jobs she should be ticking off. ‘I knew I’d mess it up,’ Elsie said, her voice loud in the kitchen. Why did her mother never speak back? What would she say to her?

  Even the comforting ritual of teatime had been robbed, the bag that had contained the broken teapot taken by the binman. She had panicked, leaving the house in slippers, pulling her dressing gown round herself as she heard the devastating clink and smash of the black bin being emptied. She should have saved it; perhaps a professional might have had more luck, perhaps she should have kept the broken parts as keepsakes.

  The next few days passed in a cloud of inactivity. A few days later, chased out of her house by hunger, she bumped into June in the High Street. She’d just wanted to get out, race back, and she flinched as the other woman bore down on her.

  ‘That form isn’t back. I thought you said he was keen, Elsie?’ June said, her cropped hair an even more startling shade of red as she emerged from the hair salon.

  ‘He is… he’s…’ Elsie couldn’t find the words. So, Billy hadn’t applied for the patch in the allotments. The thought made her heart sear with fresh pain.

  ‘I’ll have others wanting the spot, Elsie,’ said June, ‘I can’t wait around forev…’

  Elsie moved away without replying. Billy had been so excited by his plans, had drawn up designs: carrots, courgettes, even an artichoke plant.

  ‘It takes two years, Elsie, but then it should produce a good crop,’ he had told her, ‘I saw it on a leaflet.’

  Had she killed his love of gardening too?

  A thought occurred to her and she found herself moving into the library in a daze of these worries.

  ‘Good morning,’ Scarlet said, a wide smile, her tone bright.

  Elsie nodded in response.

  ‘Do you want to borrow anything in particular?’ Scarlet’s voice carried across the empty library.

  Elsie regretted coming in almost immediately, not prepared to chat today, just wanting to fetch what she was after and head home as dark thoughts crowded in once more. Perhaps if she put things in a letter it might help? She thought then of her desk, the purple fountain pen, a fresh piece of paper. One of the few things that transported her in time, out of this present mess. She might have lost Billy but she hadn’t lost that.

  ‘Can I help, Elsie? We’ve had a few new releases come in this morning, I’ve popped them on the shelf just there…’

  Scarlet had moved around the counter and was stepping over to the shelf she had pointed to. ‘Have you finished your last lot? You do read quickly,’ she added as Elsie searched for the sign for Non-Fiction.

  Scarlet was still standing in front of her. Elsie just wanted the book – it would help her fix things, perhaps. ‘I actually thought of you because you enjoyed one of Hannah Richell’s earlier novels and her latest is out, if you’re interested?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not,’ Elsie said, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing Scarlet’s face before hurt filled her eyes.

  No more chatting about favourite authors or new releases, Scarlet slunk back behind the counter without another word, the tap of a computer keyboard to show she had given up trying to be nice. Elsie deserved it.

  Another woman appeared, someone Elsie didn’t recognise, a smile and some low voices as she returned a couple of books. Outside, people walked past the window of the library to the shops, pushing trolleys, prams or deep in conversation. It seemed the whole world just kept turning.

  Elsie moved across to the shelves and started to run a finger along the correct section. There weren’t too many books: the lakes of the UK, bird watching, an encyclopaedia of insects and a couple of gardening books – something Billy could glean some new information from. One looked wordy, its pages yellowed, the text too small, but the other was full of glossy photos, a calendar of when to do things throughout the year, a chatty informal style. Elsie felt her heart lift as she flicked through it.

  Finding an appropriate book had relaxed Elsie a little more and she gave Scarlet a small smile as she handed it over. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Scarlet passed the book under the scanner. ‘Well, I’m glad I caught you. Another five minutes and I’d have missed you. I’ve got a dress fitting. Did I tell you last time we’re getting married?’

  Elsie’s face fell. ‘No, no, you didn’t mention it,’ she replied, her teeth gritting.

  ‘I’m just looking for ways to save money, you know, and there’s a sample sale on so I thought I might head into town and take a look. I’ve already bought the cutest outfit for Harry to wear, with a little bow tie attached!’

  Elsie didn’t want to discuss baby bow ties or weddings. Definitely not. She said nothing in response, just bit the inside of her cheek, and hoped Scarlet would hand back the book, that she could leave the library, the smell of books and dust behind, a smell she normally associated with positive things. She just wanted this friendly, softly-spoken woman to stop talking to her.

  ‘How’s that lovely boy then? He still helping you in the garden?’ she asked as she passed over the book.

  Elsie licked her lips, her throat dry as she swallowed, hugging the book to her chest.

  ‘I was saying to my partner that I’d ask your advice on flowers we could put at the front of our house. It’s north-facing and I wasn’t sure which ones might work and then I thought, I know who would know…’

  Elsie didn’t want to hear it. Lucky Scarlet.

  ‘The garden centre should have ideas,’ she replied curtly.

  Scarlet fell silent, shifting on her own stool, an uncomfortable pause between them. This felt more familiar: they hadn’t really spoken in years, this was how things had once been. Hello, scan a book, leave.

 
Scarlet popped a biro back in the desk, slowly, and took a breath. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ she said, looking up, ‘but you don’t quite seem yourself. Is anything wrong?’

  Elsie looked down at her, mouth pressed together, noticed Scarlet cringe. ‘Nothing of import. I don’t speak to the boy any more.’

  Scarlet couldn’t help her reaction, her mouth opening, a line between her eyes, ‘Oh, what happened? Can it be fixed?’

  ‘Fixed? Don’t be so presumptuous!’ Elsie snapped. ‘You can’t just wave a magic wand and expect life to be fine.’ She took a step backwards. ‘I really must be getting on,’ she announced. Busy, busy, always busy. She thought of the old things she used to do to fill her day: the set times to walk into the village, jigsaws, Solitaire, television viewing, tea, cleaning, dusting. Busy.

  No goodbye as Elsie stepped across to the door and out into the street, a quick glance back to see Scarlet watching her leave, a miserable look on her young features.

  For a fleeting second Elsie regretted the exchange but how could Scarlet possibly understand anything with her bonny baby and her partner waiting for her as she walked down the aisle?

  She left as it started to drizzle, her hair and woollen coat dotted with raindrops as she headed into her house. The oppressive silence surrounded her as she moved through to the kitchen, the table and counters a mess of crumbs, abandoned cups, plates, a saucepan with congealed porridge stubbornly stuck to it, a few flies resting and then circling, resting and then circling. Elsie lowered herself into the chair, reaching as she had done these last few days for the tin. The tin that had caused all this hideousness.

  The items that should have brought her comfort didn’t. The bag of boiled sweets, favourites from the dusty old sweet shop in the village, its shelves rammed with enormous glass jars with sweets of every colour and texture. Asking for a ‘quarter’ or a ‘half’ of boiled sweets, the bag bursting with those sugary treats. The playing cards, worn from endless games they had played together. The map with its reminders of picnics in bluebell woods, trips to the pictures.

  All of it ruined with the other knowledge. Elsie picked up the photo of the baby, one finger moving across her features. A beautiful baby, hands raised as if about to clap, chubby cheeks. This was her blood relation, her half-sister. She felt a wave of shock that she had felt on first discovering this fact twenty-eight years ago.

  She hadn’t been truthful with Billy. She knew a lot more than she had told him.

  Her mother had written a letter that was placed on the top of the mysterious items, a letter that Elsie had removed from the tin when she buried it out in their garden, wanting to pretend the whole thing never existed. A letter that, although it lived in the top drawer of Elsie’s bedside table, was imprinted on the inside of her mind too, causing a constant circle of the same thoughts. Physical proof of the thing she most dreaded: her own bogeyman locked away.

  My darling girl… it had said. It had revealed the truth and shattered everything Elsie thought she’d known.

  Things that had never made a great deal of sense started to reveal their special meaning. Elsie recalled the date on the back of the photo of the baby – 2nd March – a day in spring every year when her mother would bake a Victoria sponge, place a candle on the top. They would hold hands over the cake and blow it out together. ‘For someone special,’ her mother always whispered and, strangely, Elsie had simply accepted it. A quirk; a pleasant ritual. For many years, it was simply lovely to have cake.

  She’d thought of that ritual when she had first drawn that photo from the tin. The special someone her mother had always honoured in that way. Had she loved this baby more, Elsie wondered. Was she more special than Elsie had been? Was that why her mother had kept so much secret?

  The nasty thought ate away at Elsie over the months after her mother’s death as she moved through the house they had shared together. The same questions always on a loop. She lost weight; she didn’t take care of herself; she dreamt of the red tin, the items mocking her, reminders that her mother had kept so much from her, her other pea in a pod indeed. Then, almost a year after her mother had died and she had discovered her secret, Elsie had found herself stood, mesmerised, in front of two stone pillars in a village a short way away, at a house marked on a handwritten map.

  The woman in the window, in the grand house. Elsie had noticed with a jolt that she was roughly the same height, the same build as her. What else would be the same? What else would be different? People had often commented that her mother had looked similar. Elsie had her eyes. Elsie had her bone structure.

  Two peas in a pod.

  Elsie realised tears had filled her eyes as she stared at the woman in the window, the special someone, the sister she never knew she had.

  Then there had been a delighted shout from nearby and the noise had prompted Elsie to think of a seaside visit, of watching from a towel next to her mother as other sisters and brothers played games, splashed in and out of the sea, built sandcastles. She could have had a sister, someone to play with, to tease her, to run over the sand with. She wouldn’t have always had to sit sensibly on the towel next to her mother; she wouldn’t have always felt so alone, so other.

  The woman in the window had looked happy, watching as in the garden two children played, their cries the sounds Elsie had heard. They had been streaking across the lawn in each other’s wake, rolling and giggling as they played, so close to Elsie she could have reached out. So, the baby in the photo had a family – her own family. Elsie’s mother had been a grandmother.

  That thought had winded her and she had staggered back from her spot into the shadow of the grand walls, clutching her stomach as the grief and sadness that had built up over the last year seemed to boil within her.

  She placed the photo on the table now, her fist balled over it, obscuring the image. With a decisive jolt, she slammed it hard into the table, the noise loud in her small house.

  Moving through to the front room she sat at her desk, pouring her pain and regret onto the sheet: picturing the kind face of the recipient, their gentle, understanding look as she wrote and wrote and wrote. In purple ink she replayed the day she had discovered the tin, the secrets inside and what it had meant. The way in which her world had tilted on its axis so that she started to question everything she’d been told.

  She left the house, the rain gone, the sun dipping behind clouds, the wind lifting her hair, the letter safe in an envelope in her hand. She felt calmer now that she had shared her thoughts, knew that the person reading would understand. She headed down the road, turning the corner to the lane, the red postbox in the distance her destination.

  As she stood in front of it she took a breath, noticing the corner of another envelope peeking from the black slot.

  The postbox was finally full, long since decommissioned many, many years ago, her own letters piling up inside. All to the same person, all one-sided. She pushed the latest one in as far as it could go, jamming it hard, needing to pretend a moment longer that someone read them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  BILLY

  ‘God, is Polly coming again?’

  Polly worked with Mum and came and ‘babysat’ for me, which actually she didn’t really do. She just sat on her mobile phone on the sofa bitching to her best mate about her boyfriend, who sounds like an absolute melt. And Polly doesn’t hide the fact she thinks our house is rubbish and, fine, our house is rubbish but I get all defensive when someone else points out the damp patch in the corner, the empty fridge, the papery loo paper that Mum definitely steals from work and the walls covered in random nails and no pictures.

  ‘What, you want to go back to Mrs Maple?’ Mum asked, snapping as she buttoned up her work shirt ready for her shift.

  ‘No, but…’

  Mum sighed, ‘Believe me, Billy, I don’t want Polly here either. For a start I have to pay her, but…’

  ‘I’m old enough to look after myself,’ I insisted for the thousandth time.
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br />   Mum bit her lip. I could tell she was tempted but then she shook her head, twisting her skirt round to do up the zip. ‘It’s not right. And I don’t mind. I know how Mrs Maple spoke to you and I don’t want you back there.’

  ‘She could be alright,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Billy, she shouted at you and made you cry, and you never cry,’ Mum said, a wound-up look on her face. ‘And then I went round and was so rude to her, there’s no way she’d watch you again even if I begged.’ She straightened her clothes and started biting at a nail again, a new habit she seemed unable to stop.

  ‘Mum, please, just for today, I promise you I’ll be good! I’ll even stop by the restaurant and I’ll look both ways crossing the road and I’ll behave myself…’

  I could see she was tipping as she glanced at the door. ‘But what if—’

  ‘Come on, Mum, please?’

  ‘I’ll text Polly and see,’ she finally said and I flew into her arms, the hug brief, her hand on my head.

  She couldn’t stop the quick grin and I felt better too – I used to always make Mum smile like that.

  So, Polly wasn’t coming and Mum left me five pounds, placing both hands on my shoulders before she left. ‘You know where I am and you can come to the restaurant whenever. And if anything happens like you break a leg or something then do go next door.’

  ‘What, with a broken leg?’ I replied, with a silly frown. ‘How would I drag myself round ther––’

  ‘Don’t tease,’ she replied, hands falling to her side, mouth twitching.

  ‘I won’t break my leg. Go on, go to work.’

  ‘You promise you’ll just stay here?’ she asked, letting me fetch her handbag.

  ‘I promise. Go on…’ I fussed over her, as if the roles were reversed and then, once the door was shut, looked around the front room.