by A J McDine
‘What do we need to remember?’ I ask him as we carry trays of oak leaf lettuce seedlings into the greenhouse.
He’s silent for a moment. ‘Hold them by the leaf, not the stem.’
‘That’s right. Because if we damage a leaf they can grow another.’
He nods. ‘But they can’t grow another stem.’
He bounces on his toes and stretches his arms as if he’s limbering up for a race. His grey teeshirt and baggy jeans hang off his slight frame and his muddy-brown hair is sticking up on one side. I stifle the urge to smooth it straight. Angela’s always telling me off for mothering the gardeners.
We fill up a couple of dozen plant pots with potting compost and I hand Martin a plastic green dibber before reaching into my back pocket for the Swiss Army knife I always have with me. Monty Don uses one for pricking out, and if it’s good enough for Monty Don, it’s good enough for me.
Martin eyes the knife with longing.
‘Can I use it? Please, Sophie.’
I check over my shoulder. There’s no sign of Angela. She’d have a pink fit if she knew I was even considering giving a knife to one of the gardeners, but Martin’s used mine before. A little trust goes a long way at Cam. He leans forward, his eyes wide. He seems calm enough today.
‘Alright then. But don’t tell Angela.’
He grins and holds out his hand. I pass him the knife, blade towards me, and we ease the delicate seedlings out of the tray. I push all thoughts of Ed and Lou out of my mind and concentrate on guiding the tiny plants into their new pots.
‘It’s too crowded in there,’ says Martin, waving the knife at the seed tray in front of him. ‘They need head space. I need head space, too.’
‘We all need head space.’ I brush the compost from my hands. ‘We’d better get these watered and then I’ve promised to help Rosie pick some flowers for the recruitment evening. Are you looking forward to it?’
He pats his jeans pocket. ‘I’ve been practising and practising and practising. My mum says she knows it off by heart. But I’m still nervous.’
I make a play of looking over my shoulder to check no-one’s in earshot. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m nervous, too.’ I hold out my hand for the knife, and Martin hands it over reluctantly. ‘It’s OK, you can borrow it another day. Just remember -’
He laughs manically. ‘Don’t tell Angela!’
It was Rosie’s idea to decorate the hall we’re using for the recruitment evening with some of the flowers and vegetables we grow at Cam.
‘The boys can do the tomatoes and stuff, and you and me can do the flowers,’ she said.
I’d looked at her in admiration. ‘It’s a wonderful idea, Rosie. You clever thing.’
She’d beamed with pleasure and is still smiling now as we walk along Cam’s gravel paths choosing the most beautiful flowers to use in our displays.
‘You seem happy now, but you looked sad before,’ she says out of nowhere. ‘And you asked for two sugars!’ she marvels. Her bottom lip wobbles. ‘It’s not little Rosie is it?’
I am quick to reassure her. ‘Little Rosie is fine. I’d just heard from a very old friend who I haven’t seen for a long, long time and I felt a bit sad.’
‘As old as my granny?’ she says, her eyes wide.
I laugh. ‘When I say old, I mean old as in from a long time ago, not how old she is. Lou’s the same age as me. Which is quite old enough.’
‘She’s called Loo? Like toilet?’
I laugh again. ‘No, Lou, short for Louise. She was my best friend when we were at school. But we lost touch and she moved to America. I haven’t seen her for more than twenty years.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Rosie snips off a pale pink carnation and lays it in the trug I’m carrying. ‘Why did Lou make you sad?’
‘She told me her husband had died. He used to be my friend, too.’
‘That is sad.’
‘And now Lou’s moved back to Canterbury and wants to meet for coffee.’ I shift the trug onto my other arm. ‘But I’m not sure it’s a good idea.’
I’m thinking aloud, but Rosie spins around, her mouth hanging open.
‘Why? She was your best friend. You must want to see her again!’
I shake my head. Rosie doesn’t understand. Seeing Lou will unleash emotions I’ve kept suppressed for years. I’m not sure I can deal with her, let alone her grief, right now. I’m like an unseasoned traveller turning up for a low-cost flight. I have too much baggage.
And yet I’ve missed Lou. She left a hole as big as Ed did when I walked out of their lives. Ed’s gone, but I have a chance to make things right with her.
‘So, you think I should see her?’
Rosie nods. ‘Have a nice cuppa with Lou. But remember, no sugars!’
Chapter Nine
Now
I’m sitting in the back row of the church hall half an hour before the recruitment evening is due to start when my phone buzzes with a text from Matt.
Good luck sweetheart. Hope you’re managing to keep a lid on your nerves. Just be yourself. They’ll love you as much as I do xx
I tap a quick reply back.
I just want to get it over and done with TBH. But the hall looks great at least. Love you xx
It’s true. The hall looks amazing. We’ve set out enough chairs for sixty people, which is probably a bit optimistic, and Geoff and Bob Wittershaw’s wife Mary have done a brilliant job with the display boards, which are plastered with photos of the gardeners at work from spring right through to winter. The top table, where Rosie, Martin and I will sit, has been decorated with an emerald-green tablecloth and two beautiful floral arrangements using the flowers Rosie and I picked. Another table along the back of the hall bears crates of lettuce and French beans, mange tout and early tomatoes from the greenhouse, which we’re offering our guests in return for a small donation.
Even Angela couldn’t help but be impressed.
‘You’ve done a good job. Let’s hope the talk goes just as well.’
The remark was so typical of Angela that I couldn’t help but smile. She’s queen of the back-handed compliments.
I check the time. It’s twenty to seven. Mary and Rowena, another of our volunteers, are pouring orange squash into plastic cups and filling bowls with crisps. Angela wanted to serve wine and platters of finger food but for once I put my foot down. I’m not frittering our meagre budget on nibbles and booze.
My nerves are jangling. What if no-one turns up? The local paper published a page feature on Cam and its work last week and I’ve sent details of the recruitment evening to all the parish magazines within a ten-mile radius. We even had a mention on Radio Kent’s Sunday gardening show, but I still have no idea how many to expect.
The baby is pressing down on my bladder. Do I have time for another quick trip to the loo? I smile as I remember Rosie’s confusion yesterday. After a bit of dithering I took her advice and arranged to meet Lou in Waterstones after my midwife appointment in the morning. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about - talking to a roomful of people or chatting one-to-one with my former best friend.
The double doors at the back of the hall swing open and a grey-haired woman with a kind face steps inside. I walk over to welcome her. As she does the doors open again and over the next ten minutes a steady stream of people arrive.
At five to seven I nip to the ladies’. As I’m washing my hands I stare at my reflection in the mottled mirror above the sink. I look pasty apart from areas of brown pigmentation on my cheeks and forehead. Pregnancy mask, they call it. It appeared despite my religious application of factor 50 sunscreen every morning and no amount of foundation covers it. I hate it, but Matt says I should embrace it, like the morning sickness and thick ankles. Easy for him to say.
Outside the toilet I can hear the hubbub of people in the hall. I catch my breath as fear sweeps through me. I can’t do it. I hold out my hands. My fingers are trembling like a drunk on a detox. Why did I ever think this was a good
idea? I press my head against the cool mirror and wait for my nerves to subside.
This is how Mary Wittershaw finds me a few minutes later.
‘Sophie, are you alright?’
The concern in her voice fills me with shame. I’m only giving a talk to a couple of dozen people, for Christ’s sake. It’s not as though I even have to give it off the cuff. It’s all there, on my PowerPoint presentation.
‘I’m fine. Just taking a moment.’ I rub my trembling hands together as if relishing the task ahead. ‘Let’s get this show on the road!’
Mary’s husband Bob is already at the top table.
‘I’ve told him to keep it short,’ Mary whispers out of the corner of her mouth. ‘But I’m afraid he does enjoy the sound of his own voice. He lives up to his name. He’d witter on for England given half the chance. Feel free to cut him off when you’ve had enough.’
This makes me grin, and I’m still smiling as I take my place next to him. Rosie is also beaming, but Martin is sitting hunched over with his head down, picking at the translucent skin on the inside of his wrist. It’s a nervous habit that’s always exacerbated when he’s anxious. I feel a stab of guilt that I’m putting him through this. I touch his shoulder and mouth, ‘You OK?’ but he just stares at me with vacant eyes.
The hall falls silent as Bob pushes his chair back and stands.
‘Welcome to Camomile Community Garden’s first ever recruitment evening. Tonight you’ll learn about the charity and the work we do for people like Rosie and Martin and how you can help. But first I’d like to tell you about the history of the project, which celebrated its tenth anniversary last year.’
I zone out as Bob burbles on about how Cam was set up and how it relies on charitable donations and grants to survive. Instead I scan the hall, curious to see the kinds of people who might be joining our ranks.
It’s no surprise they fit the profile of a typical volunteer at Cam - middle class and newly retired. I’d love to see a few younger faces on the books. After all, a lot of the gardeners are in their early twenties. But most twenty-somethings are working and playing too hard. At least their grandparents’ generation is reliable and keen to help.
I spot a familiar face. It’s Roz, sitting on her own in the back row, her handbag on her lap. She must have sensed me watching her because she smiles and gives me a little wave. I smile back. I’m surprised she’s here. She doesn’t strike me as the gardening type. Perhaps she came along as moral support as Matt couldn’t make it. I can’t remember mentioning the evening to her, but I can’t remember anything much at the moment.
A couple of people in the front row are growing fidgety. I know I need to take control and cut Bob off. Trying to ignore my racing heart, I take three deep breaths and shuffle to my feet, hoping no-one notices my trembling knees.
I clear my throat. ‘Thank you, Bob, for your very comprehensive insight into the history of Camomile Community Garden, or Cam, as it’s known to its friends.’
There’s a small ripple of applause and Bob sits down reluctantly. I open my laptop, tap in my password and navigate to the shared drive on which I’ve saved my presentation.
The file is sandwiched between a funding application and last year’s accounts. I click on it and wait for it to open. The first slide is a group shot of all our gardeners and volunteers at last year’s open day. But there’s no sign of it now. Instead a small window opens. My eyes slide over the words with a feeling of dread.
The file is corrupt and cannot be opened.
Chapter Ten
Now
I close the window and try opening the file again. The same message pops up on the screen. I try a third time. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man wearing a frayed Panama hat sneak a look at his watch.
This can’t be happening. What am I going to do? All those carefully-crafted words, the dozens of photos I’ve taken, all stuck in cyber hell. There’s no way I can give this talk without them. The urge to flee is so intense I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself pushing the chair back and sprinting from the room.
My eyes slide over to Angela, who is sitting in the front row flanked by the Lord Mayor and the reporter from the Kentish Gazette. Her arms are crossed and she’s staring at me flinty-eyed. I know I have to say something, but my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth and I seem to have lost the power of speech.
Seconds tick by. Beside me, Rosie is humming to herself, oblivious to my predicament. Martin is still plucking at his wrist. Every sound is amplified in my heightened state of anxiety. The scrape of a chair at the back of the hall; the scratch of the reporter’s pen as he doodles in his notebook; the distant rumble of a lorry on the ring road. Think, think, think. How did the talk begin? I search my memory but draw blanks. My palms are clammy and I wipe them on my dress. As I run them over my belly the baby kicks. It’s the catalyst I need to pull me from my inertia.
My baby, whose precious life began in a petri dish, has survived this far against the odds, clinging on with the gritty determination of a battle-scarred warrior, while I’m paralysed with terror at the thought of talking to a roomful of people eager to hear about my beloved Cam. Pathetic.
I reach for the glass of water on the table in front of me and take a small sip. The baby kicks again. I think of the petri dish and the moment of conception. Just start at the beginning, says a tiny voice inside my head and I take a deep breath.
‘I remember the first time I walked through the gates into Cam.’ My voice sounds shaky, but I plough on. ‘It was love at first sight. A little slice of horticultural heaven on the edge of our beautiful city. I began as a volunteer just like you all.’ I raise my chin and smile. ‘Just like you all will be by the end of the evening, anyway…I hope.’ There’s a small murmur of assent. It’s enough to give me confidence. ‘I fell in love not just with the plants but with the people, people like Rosie here, and Martin. And when the opportunity to work at Cam came along I grabbed it with both hands.’
I pause, relieved to see I have their attention. ‘Gardening has such a positive impact on both physical and mental health. Being in the garden keeps us connected to other living things. Studies have shown that self-absorption can contribute to depression. Gardening allows us to be nurturers, it gives us a sense of responsibility and helps us be less insular.’
My gaze wanders to Roz, sitting on her own at the back of the hall. She’s listening intently.
‘If the plants are Cam’s oxygen, the volunteers are its lifeblood. Without them we couldn’t function. We need people like you to support our gardeners and to help us fundraise to keep this vital amenity flourishing. Working with our gardeners is immensely satisfying and rewarding and it’s also great fun. I give you my personal guarantee that you’ll love it. In fact, I promise that after your first week you’ll be wondering why you didn’t volunteer years ago.’
A couple of people chuckle. They’re finally on my side.
‘I’d like to hand over to two of our gardeners, Rosie and Martin, who would like to say a few words.’
Rosie leaps to her feet and grins at the audience.
‘I’m Rosie and I’m twenty-two. I’m always getting into trouble. Angela says I’m like a bull with two left feet in a china shop. But I think that’s a bit mean to bulls. Cam is my favourite place in the whole wide world, and I love working with Sophie and Geoff and the others, even Angela. When she’s in a good mood.’
There’s an awkward pause and I hardly dare look at my boss. She’s bound to think I’ve put Rosie up to this, but I really haven’t.
Rosie screws up her face as she tries to remember what comes next. ‘My favourite thing about working at Cam is eating the things I’ve grown with my own hands.’ She holds out her hands and wiggles her fingers. ‘It always tastes scrumdiddlyumptious! And now I’m going to tell you a secret. Sophie’s having a baby and when she’s born she’s going to call her Rosie, just like me!’
Everyone claps as she sits back down. I give her the
thumbs up before turning to Martin.
‘Ready, Marty?’
Avoiding eye contact, he reaches for the tatty piece of paper on the table in front of him. As he does his sleeve slips back and I notice beads of blood on his wrist. My heart lurches. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? He’s been showing the occasional sign of manic behaviour over the last couple of weeks. What if this sends him in a downward spiral? Subconsciously I rub a thumb over the jagged scar on the underside of my forearm.
Martin pulls himself to his feet and crumples the paper in his hand. He wraps his thin arms around himself and stares at an electric bar heater suspended from the ceiling above us.
‘I’m Martin and I’m twenty-six and I have schizophrenic disorder and I’m bipolar which means sometimes I’m very happy and sometimes I’m very sad and sometimes I’m very hyper and sometimes I’m very angry but I’m always happy when I’m at Cam almost always anyway because being with the plants helps me keep calm and gives me head space because we all need head space don’t we Sophie?’
His entire discourse has been delivered in an emotionless, almost robotic monotone. He sits down abruptly and glances at me.
I touch his hand. ‘We certainly do. Thank you, Martin and Rosie, for telling us why Cam is so important to you. And thank you to everyone for coming along tonight to learn about the work we do. If you’d like to join us, please see Mary to fill in a form and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask.’
There’s another round of applause and I exhale slowly. My legs still feel like jelly, as if I’ve just swum the Channel or climbed Scafell Pike.
‘Did I do OK?’ Rosie says, her forehead crinkling.
‘You did brilliantly. You both did.’
Martin is still hunched in his chair. ‘I did it for you, Sophie,’ he mumbles. ‘I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.’
‘I know, and I’m so grateful. You both made a great impression. Look at all those people filling in forms!’