by Ana Salote
‘Sorry love, your card’s come back. No forwarding address,’ she said.
‘So we don’t know where he is?’
‘I’m sorry.’
His eyes grew a little bit older. After that Charlie worked even harder on the project. One day he clambered up breathlessly to tell me that he had found a plant not mentioned in Birtwhistle. He showed me his sketch and together we named it Junglus slaterii. No detail of the garden escaped him. He even described the dance of falling leaves: how some rock like swingboats, and others, like sycamore, swirl down stem first.
My own last leaf dropped, and so, for me, came darkness. Winter is my night, though I can see through Charlie’s mind when he is near. But winter was shorter than ever. I felt like spring was shaking me awake just minutes after I’d fallen asleep. Very soon my buds were green enough to see the first catkins, and gnats dodging web skeins in the slanting light. With the surge of spring I cast around for a project of my own. I didn’t have to look very far.
Holly was the first. She grows opposite me on the other side of the kitchen window and our roots are politely intertwined. The wakening didn’t come to Holly in a flash as it did with me. Holly described it as echoes coming through a fog, and I was the source. She felt echoes and shadows of my thoughts for a long time but she couldn’t catch hold or make sense of them. As soon as I felt her budding mind groping towards mine, I started to teach her and she caught on very quickly.
First I taught her how to translate light and sound waves into humanish sight and hearing. She loved Lesson 3: Cause and Effect – a new look at weather. Lesson 6: Making Stories, took her a while to get.
In the past we plants had our stories: a sort of endless whispering about the weather, but nothing on the scale of human tales.
‘Stories are just cause and effect with different leaves,’ I told her, but it didn’t really click until I showed her Brooke Farm.
‘Lesson 8, Understanding Humans Part 1, was hard work. I was trying for the umpteenth time to explain to Holly about beauty. Eva is an artist. She throws open a window to watch a special sunset, and murmurs things like:
‘The artless art of it; the throwaway, heartbreaking signature of God up there,’ and she laughs and puts her arm round Charlie who knows what she means and through him I’ll feel a glimmer too. But explaining it to Holly was tricky.
‘Beautiful things are things that humans like to look at, and it makes them feel good,’ I said.
‘ Why?’ she wanted to know.
‘That’s something I’m still looking into,’ I said, ‘just try to accept it for now.’
Charlie climbed the ladder. For once he listened to me when I told him to take a break; he was just a child after all. The grass cuttings, which Eva had heaped under the treehouse, steamed faintly in the sun, sweet with daisy heads and dandelion clippings. Charlie flopped backwards into it, he flopped forwards into it, he flew scissor-shaped, leapt knees tucked, somersaulted. He rolled around till he looked like some sort of mad grass boy. It was too distracting. I abandoned Beauty.
When he had exhausted every possible kind of leap, he went for a walk through the orchard; a hairy green animal he seemed. As he walked he touched the trees alternately to one side and then the other. At the bottom of the Orchard, where two cherry trees form an arch into the Jungle, Charlie stopped with a hand on each bole.
‘Whoa,’ he said looking back over his shoulder with a big grin, then slowly scanning the whole garden. ‘Can you feel that,’ he said, ‘it’s all prickling, it’s all coming alive.’
It was true; along with its spring buds the whole garden was budding awareness.
It seemed that a sort of diluted gnosis had passed along my roots and from plant to plant.
Over the next few days the waking rolled down the garden reaching all the way to the edge of the Jungle. Flowers and leaves burst open in spontaneous surprise. The garden buzzed with questions and confusion. Remembering how awakening felt, I couldn’t just leave them to it. I did my best to guide them.
Each plant came along at its own pace, but few were as quick as Holly. Most of them could only think for a small part of the day and some of them preferred not to do it at all. It didn’t matter. In the end my influence showed in two things: they all loved Charlie and they were all addicted to stories – well OK, Brooke Farm.
The other plants couldn’t talk to Charlie like I could, but they bonded with him anyway. That was why Eva’s plan came as such a shock to all of us. I don’t blame Eva though; after the oil wars, she was just trying to survive.
Chapter 5 Garden for Sale
All the surprises in my life have come when I least expect them. If I had a better imagination perhaps I would be ready.
Charlie had gone to see Conal’s rescued fox cub. As soon as he returned he got back to work. I could see him kneeling in the undergrowth at the edge of the orchard.
‘Campanula,’ he said, consulting Birtwhistle. ‘Hey, top genes. Temperature or day length can make it flower. That could be important.’
Just then Eva came out of the orchard. A man walked beside her. He held himself away from the greenery around him, actually shuddering when a tangle of vines sprang back and brushed his face. His aura was compressed to a thin dark line. Why was he holding himself in like that? They didn’t notice Charlie at first.
‘It’s a fair sized plot,’ said the man, ‘it will take a lot of work to clear of course, neglected as it is, but I’m willing to make you a good offer.’
‘What would you do with it, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Eva said.
‘Some low building, paved terraces - tidy, nothing like the present eyesore.’
‘Wildness has its charm.’
‘In certain circumstances,’ he said, and moved one of Eva’s straying curls away from her eye. Eva looked surpised and the man straightened up. ‘Control it or it will control you,’ he said, ‘Look at it – straining to break out.’
He smacked the vine down from in front of his face.
Then he leaned towards Eva again and spoke in a low voice: ‘I know how hard it is for a woman on her own. If you need to talk, don’t forget I’m in the next office.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Right, I’ll send a formal offer in writing and we’ll take it from there.’
Charlie shot up suddenly from the flower bed. ‘But Mum…’ Eva shushed him as she guided the man away.
Charlie waited for her in the kitchen, his face set for battle.
‘Why?’ he said as soon as she returned.
‘Sweetheart, we don’t have a choice. You’ve noticed how tight things have
been getting lately, haven’t you? It was hard even before your dad left. Since the
oil wars, the prices seem to double every week. If Mr Sperrin makes a good offer
for the Jungle, it could solve all our money problems for years. Look at this,’ Eva
picked up his school sweatshirt, ‘the elbows are gone, the collar’s frayed. I’m
ashamed to send you to school in it.’
‘Mum, that’s so not important. Everybody’s the same. The teachers understand. What about the Jungle? What about the animals and the birds and plants? It’s their home.’
Eva looked at him questioningly. ‘I know how much you love the garden, I love
it too, but...’
‘No, really, life is at stake. Do you want to sell it?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t then, because I’d rather starve.’
‘Charlie, it’s not just the Jungle. If I don’t pay something on the mortgage soon we could lose the whole house. It doesn’t make sense anyway, the two of us, living in a place this size.’
Charlie looked at me and I looked back. Our thoughts panicked and tumbled together. My roots braced as though against a coming gale.
‘We can sell stuff, sell the car; it’s no use without petrol. Then you can trade our petrol vouchers. I’ve heard people say they’re worth more than money. You can sell all my stuff; my computer, al
l my games.’
‘You’d do that to keep the garden?’
‘I’d do anything.’
Eva didn’t really believe that, but she couldn’t see what I saw. The will in him was absolute; his aura split into defiant shells extending half way across the room. Both were silent for a minute.
‘You must mind, not having all the things we used to have?’ Eva said.
‘No. It’s fun growing our own food, and making stuff instead of buying it, and I like candles, and toast on the fire.’
‘Yes, we still have fun don’t we, but – you must miss something from the old days.’
He blinked hard.
‘Come here, I’m sorry. Can you understand, joining that band - your dad is only following his dream?’
Charlie softened. He knew all about dreams.
‘If only life was like monopoly,’ she said, ‘I could run round and round the board passing GO,’ and she started running round the kitchen table, ‘keep grabbing my money,’ she snatched at imaginary cash, ‘two hundred, I’ll take that thank you, round and round, not stopping till my annuities mature - if I had some, and I knew what they were.’ She stopped, out of breath. Charlie was laughing now.
I recalled an exchange between myself and Wilfred. He had launched into one of his rants: ‘Humans they’re such vain, puffed up, know-it-alls; yet they’ve only got five senses and those are pathetic: a hawk sees further, a dog’s nose is so good he can tell where I walked last week, a bee can see in ultra-violet, birds and fish navigate half the planet without maps or compasses but none of them make a song and dance about it.’
I could see him working himself up into one of his fits. He goes rigid sometimes and lies there like he’s dead, a dangerous thing for an animal. They have to stay guarded. I tried to distract him.
‘I’ve noticed six,’ I said.
‘Six what?’
‘Senses. Humans have another sense.’
‘What would that be?’ he said, scornful but interested.
‘It’s a sense that only humans have,’ I said, stringing him along; it was rare enough for me to be telling him something.
His muscles started to relax. ‘Well?’
‘They have a sense of humour.’
He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What’s that?’
It’s something you pick up if you study them for long enough. Ever heard them laugh, that ha-ha thing they do?
‘Of course I have. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s just part of their language.’
‘No, it’s more than that. They do it when certain kinds of things happen. I don’t understand it yet but it’s one of the things that makes them them, and us us.’
‘And what use is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does it help them survive?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘I’m still figuring it out.’
I knew one thing: no matter how terrible things were, someone would make a joke about it. I thought that was definitely worth a notch on the human side of the trunk.
Eva said she would put off selling for as long as possible, but I decided to keep an eye on her anyway. I didn’t want any more surprises.
‘Due, overdue, very overdue, pay up or go to court,’ she said as she sorted the mail one morning. ‘Right, bin those. What do I do about this?’
There was one envelope left to open. ‘You don’t look like a bill,’ she said, ‘or are you a bill in disguise?
Eva opened the envelope and began to read. She frowned, shook her head in disbelief, sat back in the chair, staring, picked up the letter, and read it again.
‘Well, damn you whoever you are,’ she said holding the envelope to the light and looking at the postmark. She picked up the phone.
‘Brigid, hi. Can you talk? Something creepy is going on,’ I heard her say, then she walked out of the room so I missed the crucial bit. Some time later she came
back still talking, ‘Yeah, you’re right, as if I haven’t got enough worries. Anyway,
I’ve got to get to work now, thanks for listening.’
She stood with her hands on her hips looking straight at me for quite a long time. I felt like she was looking to me for answers. ‘Something will come up,’ I said, because that’s what Les Durrell said on Brooke Farm after the foot and mouth outbreak.
‘Something will come up,’ Eva said, then she glanced at her watch and ran out.
Chapter 6 No Money No Cry
A red and green parrot flew overhead. It seemed to be laughing. Wilfred scampered into the garden.
‘Freedom!’ he saluted the parrot as it turned to a dot in the sky. ‘I hope he makes it.’
‘Where’s he going?’ I asked.
‘Home to Senegal. The humans kidnapped him, wrenched him squawking from the nest, sent him thousands of miles stuffed in an airless box, and put him behind bars. For what crime? I just freed him. It’s a long way home, but he’s got directions and there’ll be help on the way.’
‘Why would people do something like that?’
‘For money at one end, amusement at the other. They do love their amusement. It’s usually pointless, wasteful or cruel of course. I’ve seen the idiots strapped to chunks of metal getting whirled around down at the old fairground. Now that’s shut down they’ve gone back to tormenting the donkeys. Why? The business of life is enough for the rest of us.’
He gave me time to ponder all this.
‘What if they wanted to help the parrot, to give it a better life?’
He looked at me in despair. ‘Let me know when you run out of excuses,’ he said, and he was off on another mission to bring down vermanity.
I kept brooding on what he’d said, and when Charlie came out later his words were scrambled into a noise I no longer understood.
‘Pttii tmmm,’ he seemed to say. ‘Did you hear me? It’s party time.’
He was carrying strawberries and icecream, candles, and a net of scraps for Morwen, the blackbird.
‘Don’t worry, Ash,’ he said, ‘I’ve got something for you too.’
I watched with interest as Charlie tipped the dark brown liquid around my roots.
‘This is Brigid’s secret formula. It’s what she feeds to her prize veg,’ he told me.
The slurry soaked quickly down and hit me with a rush.
‘What’s up, Ash – speechless? Well, is it good?’
‘It beats the sap out of manure.’
‘I’ll tell Brigid; she will be pleased,’ he said through his laughter.
As I wallowed, Charlie climbed up and toasted the garden. He had sorted all his papers into a smart green file, as thick as Birtwhistle. He held it up proudly.
‘I declare phase one of the project - the Jungle register, to be complete. This garden is all present, correct, and ready for the call.’
‘What’s phase two?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know for certain. It’s cooking up somewhere. Like clouds brew out of sight.’
I was too happy to question any further. I had Charlie to myself again and Brigid’s feed was making me feel like Les Durrell after six pints at the Tipsy Tup.
Wilfred’s words faded away.
My good mood lasted well into the next day. Charlie was due home from school so I watched the kitchen and waited.
Eva was walking up and down, opening and shutting empty cupboard doors. She fished in the bread crock, pulled out a bag containing three slices and threw it on the table. Scribbling down some figures she counted under her breath then stared at the figures again. I heard Charlie coming in. Eva straightened up, brushed some wetness from her cheekbone with the heel of her hand, and turned with a smile.
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Brilliant,’ he grabbed Eva’s sleeve, ‘and guess what, come and look, Conal’s got a horse and cart. We’re all going for a ride.’
‘Whose clothes are you wearing?’
‘Conal’s – I got changed to clear out the pigs. Come on, they’re waiting for us.’
&
nbsp; I wondered if Charlie knew how much I looked forward to him coming home. The door slammed. My trunk felt hollow with disappointment. I heard clopping, slow at first, then picking up speed and fading. The clops came back as they passed down Spring Hill. I saw the cart where the hedge dipped, and glimpsed Charlie’s ruffled hair. My mind strained after them and I felt a familiar pang, knowing that as long as I lived I could never leave the garden.
Miffed, I turned to Holly. ‘I wonder what it’s really like to be an animal,’ I said. ‘There’s one thing I envy them. I’d like to ease my roots out, shake the soil off and go for a stroll.’
‘Horrible thought,’ said Holly, ‘I feel dizzy just thinking about it.’
‘It’s disturbing, but get past that falling feeling and imagine the freedom. You know where I’d go on my stroll, I’d go and have a proper look at the sea.’
From the garden the sea is a strip of blue that hazes into sky. Gulls land on the roof sometimes and I smell the sea on them. Once a gull got dusted with my pollen and my thoughts launched from the roof with it. I was riding and sliding, tipping and balancing on air, heading for the wide open sea. Then I lost the connection. I’ve since found out more about the sea from TV.
‘I’ll tell you what blows me away,’ I went on, ‘there’s a whole other world under there. Did you know that the sea has its own birds, called fish; and its own special gardens where all the plants are weeds – seaweeds. I like that, it’s a great leveller.’
The clock in the sitting room changed to 7:00. Those symbols meant it was time for Brooke Farm, and still they hadn’t returned. At the end of the last episode, Sally Durrell’s sister had stolen her sleeping pills. It was a coma waiting to happen. Did they have to choose that day to miss the programme?
The garden waited but the screen stayed dark and dumb. It was over to Rose, my best imagination student, to make up the story for us. Rose is a bit of a one-trick peony; her solution is always to kill people off, whereas in real life I’ve found that they just go into comas. This happens all the time in the soaps. It’s like seeds lying dormant. Dormant seeds can be woken by a change in the weather. Dormant people, however, can only be woken by visits from footballers.