Improbable Botany

by Wayward

  But there were no familiar faces among those turned briefly towards her and then away again; the only one she recognised was Mr Patel, who owned the corner shop where she often bought a newspaper and bottle of water, and he looked away again quickly as if she was not who he had been expecting. She had an urge to turn around and go home; maybe she could tempt Neil away from the internet long enough to watch another episode of Homeland.

  Too late. She’d been spotted by a silver-haired woman who now bore down, brandishing a clipboard, and Hannah felt she must add her name and address to the list and then find a seat.

  Perched on one of the hard metal chairs, she felt a not-unpleasant glaze of bored acceptance settle over her. What else had she expected? Why had she come? If she wanted company, friendship, support, she’d have done better to pick up her phone, or go on the computer – Bella in New York, Mary in Wales, were only a few clicks away. She had no friends here, and if she wanted new ones she had better find something that really mattered to her, or something more congenial – an evening class in Tai Chi or conversational Italian.

  The end was near; the chairwoman made a perfunctory request for “any other business?” and then, out of the sea of shaken heads, one clear, female voice rang out:

  “Japanese Knotweed.”

  The phrase meant nothing to Hannah, and she was startled by the immediate reaction from others, as people shifted and muttered angrily. She craned her neck and peered around curiously, seeking the source. The words, to her, seemed mysterious and lovely. She imagined long, supple strands of grass knotted into artistic origami shapes by a pair of slender hands emerging from the wide, silken sleeves of a kimono. Yet it was clear that they inspired a very different response in others.

  “Bloody disgrace!”

  “I call it criminal.”

  “Surely they realise... the amount of money we’ve spent...”

  “Must be fly-tipping.”

  “Saw it on the verge...”

  “What can you do? ... empty properties...”

  “In the bin! Cuttings actually in the bin.”

  “Two gardens on my way here!”

  “... in the garage!”

  “... facing a fine and can’t possibly sell and it’s not my fault!”

  “Outrageous!”

  A storm, a positive tsunami was building, all because of a plant that grew where it was not wanted. Hannah felt bemused by so much passion directed at a weed. Was everyone here such a keen gardener? She felt, except as a passive observer, little interest in the subject. It was nice to be able to sit outside on a pleasant evening, or grill some meat on the barbecue in the open air, but neither she nor Neil had the time or inclination to indulge in all the care a proper garden required, so they’d put in decking, and placed a few shrubs and miniature trees in pots, leaving a bit of rather scruffy lawn at the end, where the children used to play. The odd weed peeked through now and then, tolerated if it was small and pretty, plucked out if it wasn’t, and while she agreed dandelions could be a nuisance, she wasn’t that bothered.

  The chairwoman restored order, reminding everyone that the subject had been quite thoroughly discussed at previous meetings, saying there was nothing to be gained by repeating the same complaints. If someone found knotweed growing on their property they had a legal obligation to have it disposed of by a properly-licensed firm. If they believed it had been introduced to their property deliberately, or through carelessness, by another, they must report this to the proper authority (information could be found on the council’s website) and might wish to pursue a civil action. After all, a patch of knotweed on a property adjacent to one you wished to buy could mean you’d be refused a mortgage.

  “As everyone knew...”

  Hannah was astonished. She found herself a resident of a veritable plague-zone, and she’d never suspected. The session concluded with the chairwoman inviting everyone to stay for tea and biscuits.

  This was really what she had come for, the time when people chatted and agreed to help one another, when new ideas were hatched, volunteers enlisted, committees and friendships formed. Waiting patiently in the queue for tea, she listened to the conversations going on around her, and they were all about the same thing; the latest sightings, the threat the invader posed to their homes, worries about insurance, bills for disposal, the fear that it was already too late... No one seemed able to talk about anything else, as if they were in a war zone.

  It seemed absurd, that people could be so terrified of something she had not heard of before this evening, but she could hardly say so. She wanted to ask questions, but hesitated to expose the extent of her ignorance. If she could find just one sympathetic soul, someone who would tell her it was all right, six months ago she’d never heard of it, either, and quickly bring her up to speed...

  Accepting her cup of tea, she slowly turned away from the table, and, as she did, another woman caught her eye and, like a reflection, smiled across the room at her. She was rather pretty, but not startlingly so; her face was heart-shaped, her hair glossy and smartly cut, her expression somehow clever, amused and sympathetic all at the same time. Hannah was drawn to her.

  When she was close enough, she said brightly, “You’ll think me a complete ignoramus, but before this evening I’d never heard of Japanese knotweed!”

  “Fallopia japonica.”

  It was the same, bell-like voice that had raised the subject after the chairwoman had asked about any other business. Hannah blinked in surprise. “That was you!”

  She gave a modest nod, and a somewhat Oriental bow. “Itadori.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That is the Japanese name: itadori. I believe it translates as ‘takes away pain,’ or ‘heals the sick.’”

  “Really! I suppose it’s used in Japanese traditional medicine?”

  The woman gave a small shrug. Close to, in the unflattering glare of the overhead lights, she looked somewhat older than Hannah had thought. “I don’t really know. I understand it can be eaten, if the young shoots are gathered in the spring.”

  “But you haven’t tried it?”

  “I’m not very adventurous. I shop at Tesco.”

  Hannah laughed. “I guess it’s not likely to turn up on supermarket shelves. So it isn’t poisonous. I thought, from the way people spoke, it must be toxic.”

  “No.”

  “Why are they so afraid of it?”

  Her faint smile was unreadable. “Because it is different? And powerful – but not in an obvious way. Some people find that attractive, but others – frightening.”

  Their eyes met again, and Hannah felt a frisson. Fear? Or desire? “You aren’t afraid.”

  The woman made a weaving motion with her hand. “Do you know the expression – I saw it on a T-shirt during the marathon – ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway’?”

  Do what? She wondered. “What does it look like? Knotweed. Itadori. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Oh, you must have! It is well-established in these parts – the hysteria of the others, it’s not without reason. It spreads very rapidly, and is hard to destroy. But it is a most strikingly beautiful plant, not likely to have escaped your notice.”

  There was something charmingly odd, attractively old-fashioned in the way she spoke. “Well, I don’t know. I’m not very clever, when it comes to plants. Can you describe it?”

  The other woman gazed at her for a long moment in silence. “It would be easier for me to show you.”

  Hannah glanced around.

  She laughed. “Not inside! But if you’re ready to leave? I can take you there. I see you’ve finished your tea. Let me.” She took Hannah’s cup and saucer, still holding her gaze, and their fingers touched.

  Hannah felt a little shock. What was going on? Was she being flirted with? She watched her walk away, noticing her slender legs, the sway of her hips, the way the light gleamed off her dark hair, and had to admit she was flattered, even somewhat aroused by the thought. She’d never had a sexual r
elationship with another woman, but had always enjoyed the physical element in her friendships – the hugs and the back-rubs and the occasional foot-massage – and had wondered sometimes, when she was young and single, what it would be like to go further. To live in a world of women. She was married now, and she loved Neil, and would never do anything to risk her marriage – but even though she would not act on it, the mutual attraction was undeniable, and the mere fact of it sent a pulse of energy through her; she felt more alive than she had in months.

  From the doorway, the woman looked back with a smile of invitation, and Hannah went to join her.

  “We never introduced ourselves. I’m Hannah.”

  Any reply was lost in the terrible, grating screech the door made in opening.

  Waiting until the booming thud of the closing door was well behind them, she tried again. “I’m sorry, I – ”

  “Don’t apologise!” She tossed that teasingly over her shoulder, striding so briskly Hannah almost had to run after her down the narrow lane, and when she abruptly stopped, there was a collision.

  “Oh! Sorry!” She bit her lip, flustered, and backed away. The other woman had not flinched, and now caught hold of Hannah’s arm, pulling her gently beside her.

  “Don’t run away. Look. This is what I want to show you. Look, there. Now, tell me, don’t you recognise her?”

  In order not to think about the touch, those firm, strong yet gentle fingers locked around her forearm, she fastened onto the grammatical oddity. Her? Not a native speaker of English. She felt relieved by this. Women in other countries often went about arm-in-arm, she thought, and so she relaxed and regarded the lush cluster of leaf and flower pushing through a bit of wire fence by the side of the footpath. Although the yellow glare of the street lamp above made it hard to be sure of the colours, the large, heart-shaped leaves must be green, the thick pale sprays of blossom might have been white, yellow or cream.

  “I don’t know, it doesn’t look familiar, but I don’t pay much attention to plants,” she said apologetically. “I’m not a gardener. But it is quite pretty.”

  “She.”

  “No, we don’t say ‘she.’”

  Her new friend laughed at her. “Oh, but we do! Even a non-gardener should know that much. It’s not only animals – plants, too, are male and female.”

  Hannah felt a swoop of embarrassment. Now the woman’s formal way of speaking and lack of identifiable accent seemed not foreign, but the sign of someone educated at some posh, old-fashioned school. Rather than apologise yet again, she managed to call on some reserve of sang-froid and said, “I was always a bit rubbish at botany. I’m amazed that you can tell a girl-plant from a boy-plant, especially in this light.”

  “Ah, but there is no trick to that, because every single one of these in this country is a clone of the original mother. All are sister-plants.”

  They stood a moment longer, gazing at the knotweed. She was aware of an elusive, faint, attractive scent, but did not know if it came from the plant or the woman. From away up the lane, she heard the sound of the heavy hall doors banging open, and then voices, footsteps approaching, and was spurred to make a move.

  “I say... shall we go somewhere for a drink? It’s still early.”

  “No.” She let go Hannah’s arm and stepped back. “My turn to apologise. I have to go now.” A group of women had drawn near, and as Hannah stepped aside to let them pass, the other woman stepped into the group and merged with the flow. “So lovely to meet you!” As she spoke she’d already linked arms with another woman, who looked slightly startled, but not displeased.

  Hannah felt as if she’d been given a sharp push. What was that all about? Had she simply imagined the attraction between them? Or was that the problem? Maybe it meant nothing, or maybe the nameless woman was now hurrying home to her own husband, wife, or lover and a night of guilty second thoughts...

  To settle her own turbulent mind, she returned her attention to the flourishing weed. Even after hearing it described in terms of fear and outrage, an enemy of the city and destroyer of all life that was not its own, she could not help but find it lovely. She even wished she could take a cutting home to plant in one of the big blue pots beside the deck. It would look lovely, and would be safe enough contained there...

  But there were undoubtedly laws against that. She told herself she would forget the plant, just as she would forget the woman who had introduced her to it.

  ~

  Later that night, at home, as she was cleaning her teeth, she noticed a slight mark on her forearm. It was yellowish, like a bruise, and she fancied it was in the very same place where the long, pale fingers of the nameless woman had held her. Placing her own hand on it, she pressed gently. It was not sore. There was nothing to feel.

  ~

  In the morning the mark had gone, and so had her memory of the woman’s face, her voice, all the emotions she had so briefly and mysteriously aroused – everything about the evening vanished from her mind except the plant.

  Fallopia japonica. Itadori. Tiger Staff. Japanese Knotweed. Himalayan Fleece-flower. Hancock’s Curse. Elephant Ears. Monkey fungus. Mexican Bamboo. Sally Rhubarb. Takes away pain.

  On her way to work that morning she saw it:

  In the untended garden of a seemingly empty house

  In the forecourt of a shut-down petrol station beside the tracks between stations

  ~

  At work, waiting for someone to get back to her, she idly searched the internet, learning some of its many common names, and saw photographs as bizarre as something from a disaster movie. There were entire monoculture forests of the stuff in parts of America – although, on the screen, out of context, it was just masses of greenery. More disturbing were the close-ups that managed to reveal the connection between this rampant, determined growth and ordinary human life. One showed vigorous, living spikes bursting through asphalt and concrete; another displayed what had happened to an abandoned car over the course of a summer. The one that haunted her was of a single tendril of green that had pushed through a crack and was now growing up the wall of someone’s sitting room – inside the house.

  She had a sensation as of ants crawling all over her; it wasn’t her body she was worried about, but her property. She had seen a patch of knotweed growing, flourishing, only a few streets away. What if there was more, closer at hand? She thought of how she had sometimes pulled weeds from cracks in the pavement or anywhere else she might notice them, and dropped them into the bin without thinking about it. Her blood ran cold with horror. What if... what if... she was part of the problem?

  When she got home that evening she went searching for it in the front and back gardens, around the decking, and underneath, along the pavement in front, and out back beside the garden shed. She spent so long outside in the fading light, hunched over and peering at every crack, cranny and growing thing that the children were embarrassed, and stuck their heads outside to hiss at her.

  “What are you doing, Mum? Come back inside!”

  “Stop that, you look like some mad old bag hunting for change. I’ll give you a pound if you just come in now!”

  Neil was scarcely more sympathetic. When she said “knotweed” he cut her off with an impatient sigh. “What put that into your head? It’s not even the growing season. If I saw it – and I would – do you think I am completely useless? Don’t you trust me to deal with it?”

  She was surprised: she’d understood that eradication was a task for professionals.

  “Oh, that’s such a con. It’s a big business now – of course they don’t want people doing it themselves. But as long as you are absolutely thorough, and understand what you’re dealing with – especially when it comes to disposal – it’s no worse than half a dozen other weeds. The problem started because, of course, it grows from cuttings, and people were careless. But it’s absolutely not a problem in Japan, China and Korea, and it needn’t be here.” Lecture over, he patted her back. “Trust me. Japanese knotweed is
not about to conquer London. Nor even our road. What set you off?”

  She murmured something about the internet.

  “Ha! First port of call for hypochondriacs and conspiracy theorists. Darling, next time you go surfing, stick to music videos and cats.”

  ~

  She did not go looking for it, but it could not be avoided. She saw it everywhere she looked. Although not growing on her own property, it was so prevalent and so visible that she was astonished she had never noticed it before. It was such a pretty plant, too, but not in the showy way of brilliantly coloured flowers like rosebay willowherb or poppies that everyone knew. In its subtle way, it had transformed her world.

  ~

  The flowers disappeared by October, and the leaves yellowed and fell, until by November there was nothing left but the bare, red-brown stalks that cracked and broke easily. Death was everywhere. Except for the artificial appearance of evergreen hedges and conifers, the natural world dressed itself in mourning.

  Hannah felt hollow inside, an echo of the death she saw around her. This happened every year, but usually she managed to delay the onset of her seasonal melancholia by throwing herself into a frenzy of preparation for Christmas, shopping, cooking, decorating, entertaining... this time, she could not summon the energy. The children, fretting over exams or working extra shifts to save for gap-year travel, hardly noticed. Neil, although concerned enough by her lethargy to suggest she needed a break – maybe treat herself to a weekend spa? Or she could go visit her sister – actually found having a low-key, inexpensive holiday period something of a relief.

  All Hannah wanted to do was sleep, sleep, sleep until the winter came to an end. It would end, she knew.

  ~

  Her mood changed, as she had hoped it might, with the season. Sometime in March, before Easter, while it was still cold and the trees were bare, she began to feel restless. She was compelled to leave the house – or, more problematically, her office – to go for a walk at least twice a day. Rain or shine, she craved fresh air, and the regular, repetitive motion soothed and revived her spirits. After only ten or fifteen minutes she was glowing with health, alive again in a way she’d almost forgotten. It was how she had felt a long time ago, when she was young and in love. And at the very start of her two pregnancies. But what was causing this absurd happiness now?