The Garden of Lost Memories

by Ruby Hummingbird

  Elsie watched Billy’s face, serious and scared as he spoke to his mum. ‘I’ll stay here. I’ll wait for you, I promise… No, he doesn’t know… I promise… Mum, it’s OK.’

  He handed the phone back to Elsie, his face strained. ‘She’s going to come here.’

  ‘Good!’ Elsie placed the phone back on the receiver, thinking back to the only other time she had phoned Samantha’s workplace, that terrible moment telling Samantha her son had fallen. Now at least she glanced across to her sofa where he had sat back down, face pale: he was safe. They couldn’t leave and go into the village to meet Samantha, Elsie had to protect him.

  They sat in the living room, curtains drawn across, a lamp casting orange light around the room.

  ‘Shall I get you some food? A drink? How about tea and a custard cream?’

  ‘I’m alright,’ Billy said, cradling his bad arm.

  ‘Are you alright? In pain?’

  He gave her a small smile. ‘Nah, it’s OK.’

  Elsie bit her lip and nodded, sitting next to him on the sofa, fiddling with a loose thread on a cushion, not the time to play Ella Fitzgerald. Headlights moved past the window, the sun setting, darkness outside.

  Billy ventured upstairs to the bathroom, taking slow, careful steps, still shaken from everything. Elsie wondered what his dad had done in the past, why Billy looked so frightened at the thought of seeing him. Samantha had been right to leave, to take him away from there.

  Elsie was lost in this thought, not focusing on someone calling her name in a panicked whisper. She came to, realised Billy was saying something from the upstairs. She frowned and pushed herself off the sofa. Then she heard the fear in his voice, the urgency.

  He called again and repeated the words. Elsie froze.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  BILLY

  It felt weird being here, weird but nice. Elsie was talking in this soft voice like she thought I might break into tiny pieces and I knew she was wondering what was going on with my dad.

  I pushed the worry deep inside me as I climbed the stairs to her bathroom, trying not to think of Dad. The sound of his hand hammering on the door, the steel in his voice, the way my heart beat faster and faster as I knew he was here, in the village, right outside as I realised what I’d done.

  The bathroom was so green, a sort of light green toilet, sink and bath, and around the toilet was this fluffy darker green mat in the shape of a ring and there were, of course, figurines on the windowsill and along the edge of the bath and a lot of them were green.

  My arm ached as I fiddled with my trousers, awkwardly twisting my clothes, strange noises from the street below turning my head. Then something I did recognise, a voice, a shrill voice, a frightened voice: Mum’s voice. My head snapped up, my heart racing. I had heard her sound like that before. I couldn’t open the window of the bathroom, a pain firing through my arm as I fiddled with the strange twisty lock. I wanted to smash it open. Come on! Oh my God, I had told him. I had told him where to come. Giving up, I moved to the doorway fast, my palm slipping on the handle of the door, calling down the stairs.

  ‘Elsie, Elsie, it’s Mum… Mum’s outside. He’s with her.’

  Returning to the window, I swept aside a figurine, hearing the voice outside raised, unable to make out what she was saying.

  Should I run out of the house into the street? Should I stay? I fiddled with the small frosted rectangular window, another figurine, a small china frog on a lily pad, slipping into the sink, the small tink as it smashed, the frog looking up at me with one sad eye.

  Elsie was climbing the stairs when I finally released the catch and I opened the window and tried to look through the narrow gap in the direction of the voice.

  ‘Billy, Billy, are you alright? What are you doing up there…?’

  I was kneeling on the windowsill, couldn’t see where Mum was.

  ‘Don’t… Please…’

  Straining to see, I felt my heart leaping in my chest. Mum sounded frightened, angry.

  ‘You’ll fall again. Here, let me hold onto you.’ I felt Elsie’s hands on my ankles, a strange comfort in the feeling.

  Suddenly I could see them. He was there, one hand on her arm, which was twisted at a funny angle, holding her close to him as he marched her past the gate. I could make out the top of his head, a small spot where he was losing his hair I hadn’t noticed before, Mum still wearing her work clothes, a tea towel over her shoulder as if she had simply walked straight out of the restaurant in the middle of an order.

  ‘I want to see my boy,’ Dad was saying.

  ‘He’s not there. Please don’t… you’re hurting me… please, John.’

  They had moved out of view but I could still hear them outside our front door, Mum fiddling with keys as he kept talking. ‘You made me look like a joke, what do you think I’ve had to say to people when they’ve asked? Hurry up, the whole bloody place will be round to see what’s going on…’

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’

  ‘I bet you’ve been telling the boy all sorts of things. Where are the keys, for God’s sake?’

  Dad sounded angrier, I barely heard Elsie’s whisperings behind me.

  ‘Don’t, John! I have them, I don’t want you to…’

  A thump on wood, a short cry, my mum started to sob, the door slamming closed. Then the muted sound of his angry voice, whimperings, noises that made me want to clamp two hands to the side of my head like I had done back in London some nights. I knew what noises came after the shouting and so I turned, practically falling into the sink.

  ‘We need to call the police,’ I said, fear in my voice, Elsie getting me down.

  She nodded, pale under the harsh bathroom light before moving into action: ‘You’re right.’

  I took the stairs two at a time and picked up the strange old-fashioned telephone with the large buttons, jabbed the three buttons, whispering quickly as a woman on the end of the phone asked me lots of questions.

  ‘Please… please, just come. He’ll hurt her. Please… He’s hurt her before.’

  Once the operator told me they’d get there quickly I put the phone back down. Elsie stood watching me, her head tilted to the side, a sad expression on her face.

  ‘Brave boy,’ she said.

  I wasn’t brave though, I thought, as I looked towards the wall with the picture of a boat over the mantelpiece. It had gone so quiet next door. Maybe they were just talking? Maybe he had left? But I knew then that Dad got angry. I had plunged my head into so many pillows over the years, wanting to convince myself he wasn’t the bad man who made my mother cry and bruise.

  And I had brought the bad man here.

  The police seemed to take forever, blue lights flashing on the back of the curtains, the sliver of glass as I pushed the curtain to one side and peered out.

  Elsie let me outside and I ran out of her house and into the street, approaching the two policemen, pointing frantically at the house.

  ‘He’s in there, with my mum! He’s angry, please, please, do something.’

  There were two of them, one man with a beard and a pot belly, talking in a too-calm voice, the other a woman with blond hair barely taller than me. How were these two going to stop my dad?

  They told me to go back into the house and I watched the bearded policeman approach the door and ring the bell. No answer. I felt my whole body tense. Come on, Mum! He knocked.

  ‘Police! Can you open the door?’

  No one did.

  Come on, Mum!

  He knocked one more time and the door opened. Then there was my dad’s voice, silky-smooth.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘We’ve had a call to investigate a domestic disturbance, sir. Could we come inside, please, and speak to people within the property?’

  I was waiting for my dad’s oily reply, the teasing, dismissive tone, but it didn’t come.

  He started to close the door but the policeman stopped him and suddenly Mum was calling out and there were noises i
n the front room. I was straining in the doorway of Elsie’s house as she held me tight.

  ‘Hold on, Billy, it’s not safe.’

  Then my dad was being led outside to the police car as I shrank back against Elsie, Mum crying as the policewoman went inside.

  I followed, needing to see her, worried what I’d find now I’d brought the bad man here. Dad spotted me, his face hard, his eyes small, as he saw me rushing to our front door. ‘Hiding! What, you don’t want to see me either?’ Loud, angry words that made the scales fall from my eyes, the shake in my hand as I reached for our door. ‘You run to her, you’re no son of mine,’ he spat. I closed my eyes, the same sick feeling inside: the fear I had always had when he got angry.

  Mum was sitting in the middle of the floor of our living room, her hair half out of the neat bun she had left for work with, the top button of her white shirt dangling off, the tea towel nowhere to be seen. The policewoman was crouched over her, talking quietly.

  Mum looked up, cringing, as I looked at her, immediately sitting straighter, adjusting her shirt. ‘Billy, I…’

  Flashes of past moments flooded me. Her moving her clothing, wincing as she stood, explaining away the shouting, her pained expression, plastering a smile on her face. I hadn’t realised I was crying until I was in her arms, dampening the white shirt, repeating the word ‘Sorry’. She was smoothing my hair, shushing me as she did when I had nightmares, the policewoman moving away.

  Mrs Maple was in the doorway, awkward, fiddling with the hem of her shirt, half-in and half-out of the house. I helped Mum up and she gave Elsie a weak smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said, making Elsie blush – two pink spots in the middle of her cheeks. ‘If you hadn’t…’ she tailed away and I knew then what she might have said.

  What would Dad have done?

  The bearded policeman was back. ‘We’ll get him down to the station, come and take a more detailed statement in the morning.’

  The policewoman handed Elsie a card. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ she said and Elsie nodded and thanked them, closing the door as they left.

  Mum started to cry quietly as the blue lights moved away, the street dark once more. Elsie rubbed her back, taking charge. It was strange to see her like that, all soft and caring, like a grandma, but something about Mum being in trouble made her seem different.

  ‘Come on,’ Elsie said, helping Mum to her feet. ‘I’ve got some things we can have in the kitchen, let’s go and put the kettle on.’

  And as she drew Mum out of the house, steering her with a gentle hand, I was glad we had moved next door to Mrs Maple.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ELSIE

  Samantha was perched on the edge of Elsie’s queen-sized bed, Elsie wavering in the doorway as she looked at them both.

  Billy was asleep, open-mouthed, on top of the duvet as his mother stroked his hair, staring down at him. Elsie moved around the room, drawing the curtains, folding clothes away in the light from the corridor, knowing Samantha might need her there, the reassurance of another adult.

  They’d stayed up late in the kitchen once Elsie had got them back to her house, hands wrapped round mugs, biscuits and sandwiches barely touched, until Billy’s head was drooping onto the table and Samantha had half-carried him up the stairs.

  ‘Just a little rest, while we wash up,’ Samantha had said to Elsie, clearly wanting to postpone going home.

  Samantha left the room now, pausing in the corridor, outside the closed door of the other bedroom opposite.

  ‘Why don’t you stay too?’ Elsie suggested, taking a breath and pushing open the door to the other bedroom.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t, I… Wow!’ Samantha said stepping inside, her voice changing as she looked around. ‘Is this your room? It’s…’

  What was it, Elsie wondered, as she watched Samantha move further into the room, her eyes scanning every corner and surface. Elsie cleaned it every week but everything had remained undisturbed for twenty-eight years: her mother’s bed made, the pink and grey quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed, the bedside table, chintz lamp, lace cover and small collection of books in a pile, her old alarm clock frozen at the wrong time. The glass of the dressing table polished, perfume bottles glinting into the glass of the mirror. Elsie felt her muscles clench as Samantha sat on the dusty rose-pink stool and reached out a hand for one of the bottles of scent, lifting it to her nose, her eyes closing momentarily.

  ‘God, I miss perfume,’ Samantha said, lowering it and giving a small embarrassed smile at Elsie. ‘Sorry, I’d forgotten how nice it is to smell good, rather than of onions.’

  ‘You don’t smell of onions,’ Elsie replied in a soft voice.

  Samantha was staring at the bottles, lifting different perfumes, reading the labels. ‘When we left London,’ she started to say, ‘I didn’t pack much. I had this expensive night cream – thirty-eight pounds a pot – it smelt of cucumber and jasmine and was the creamiest texture. I used to pile it on…’ She trailed away, her hands resting on the glass surface. ‘It’s funny, what you miss.’

  Elsie moved and stood behind her, their eyes meeting in the dressing table mirror. Samantha looked so young and sad. ‘My mother loved lotions and potions, floral scents. I always thought she wanted to bring her beloved garden indoors…’ Idly, Elsie lifted the bottle, spritzing it onto a wrist to smell, something she hadn’t done in decades. The smell sent her spinning back through the years, a heady mix of sweet roses that reminded her of soft cashmere hugs, hair tickling her cheek. Her eyes immediately filled with tears and she turned, lowering herself onto the mattress.

  They sat like that in a contemplative silence, aware of Billy sleeping next door, the quiet of the village outside, a crescent moon just visible from the window, stars pinpricks in a navy sky. Elsie got up and drew the curtains across, taking a breath and trying to keep her voice light. ‘I’ll fetch you something to sleep in,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t…’

  Elsie looked at her. ‘Of course you can. You don’t have to go back there tonight, if you don’t want.’

  Samantha scratched at her neck, pulled on her shirt collar. ‘I don’t want us to impose. You were so wonderful today, to realise he… well, I owe you a great deal.’

  ‘You’re not imposing. It would be my pleasure.’

  ‘But I was so, so rude to you,’ Samantha said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ears.

  ‘You weren’t rude, you were protecting your son,’ Elsie said firmly, moving across to the mahogany chest of drawers, ‘And if you were rude, I would have deserved it,’ she added, turning to give Samantha a small smile.

  Sliding open the second drawer down, she stared at the neatly folded and pressed items inside, sachets of lavender potpourri tucked between the layers, making her head swim once more. ‘I care about Billy, and you,’ she added, glad she wasn’t making eye contact, surprised to hear the small break in her voice as she rifled through the pile of cotton before pulling out a nightdress her mother had barely worn.

  Fetching a towel, a spare toothbrush she had yet to open, she placed the small pile in Samantha’s arms. ‘There you are, something to make things a little more comfortable tonight. Billy’s asleep now so there’s no point moving him. You get yourself ready and sleep in here.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t, this is your bedroom.’

  Elsie didn’t tell her it was not. Someone else would be spending the night in her mother’s room for the very first time since her mother had died. The thought made her blink in surprise. The offer to stay in her mother’s room had come before she could really think it through. And yet she didn’t take it back.

  ‘Where would you sleep?’ Samantha asked, getting up from the stool.

  ‘I’m not much of a sleeper,’ Elsie lied, ‘I have a place downstairs.’

  The lie seemed convincing as Samantha hugged the small pile of items to her chest, the day’s events catching up with her as she stifled a yawn.

  ‘You go in and change,’ Elsi
e said, ‘and I’ll make up the bed.’

  Samantha moved into the small bathroom as Elsie changed the sheets, the strangest sensation of preparing the bed for someone other than her own mother, glad to be helping someone who dearly needed it. Samantha returned looking like a teenager, her face scrubbed, her bare feet poking out of the long white cotton nightdress, her arms crossed self-consciously in front of her, wincing as she moved. It was clear she was hurt.

  ‘Do you want anything for the pain?’ Elsie asked in a brisk voice, not wanting to betray her shock. What things had happened before, she wondered. What had this poor woman been through?

  ‘I feel a bit silly not wanting to go back…’ she said quickly, not quite able to meet Elsie’s eye.

  ‘That’s not silly,’ Elsie replied, reaching to pat her on the arm.

  The bed was made and Elsie was just moving to leave when Samantha called out in a small voice, ‘Do you mind, would you… would you stay and talk a while longer?’

  Elsie nodded and removed her shoes, sitting on the small bed, back resting against the headboard. She thought about how often she’d wished she had someone here, helping the loneliness ebb away. Samantha joined her and they sat like that for a while, not really saying a great deal.

  ‘How about I read something?’ Elsie suggested, remembering then the days she had sat next to this bed and read to her mother, soothing her with the balm comfort of words.

  She reached for a battered copy of The Wind in the Willows, smiling as she thought back to her day on the river with Billy. She would give him this copy to keep.

  She began to read, her voice growing in strength as she did so, Samantha’s gentle breathing the only other sound. She read in a slow, steady voice until her own eyes started to flicker and Samantha had shifted down the bed until her head was resting on the pillow, her eyes closed tight.

  Elsie looked at her, her loose hair fanned around her face, her head lolling to the side. She could make out the bloom of fresh bruises on her neck. She continued to read until she was sure Samantha had fallen asleep beside her and then, ever so quietly, she slipped off her side of the bed and padded downstairs to wait for them both to wake up.