The Gardens of the Dead

by William Brodrick

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But someone with an eye for these things will be considering them shortly’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘You’ve done your part,’ said Anselm, wanting to give something back to this man who’d given so much. ‘Now you can rest.’

  George raised his legs, looking down at the bandaged feet. ‘I lost my shoes, somehow, and I got terribly wet and cold.’ He became confused, his mind in suspension; he seemed to have heard a noise, like a scratching behind the wall. Quietly he said to himself, ‘No … no … It’s gone.’

  Later in the day Anselm would ring Inspector Cartwright to recount the conversation that revealed how little George knew, and how much. But first, there was something else to be done. He reached deep into the oldest part of anyone’s memory, saying, ‘Would you like to go home, George?’

  4

  Nick Glendinning sat in the sitting room at St John’s Wood twirling a piece of paper between his fingers. Written on it was the telephone number of the woman who’d asked about ‘her lad’, the woman who’d probably received his mother’s last words. She hadn’t rung Charles, or the police or the medical services. She’d rung this stranger. What had she said, before dying?

  At first, Nick told himself that Father Anselm was handling Elizabeth’s final dispensations — she’d planned it that way — so he tried to forget the question: he signed up as a locum, and he tried to assume a normal life — until it dawned on him that he’d stumbled on another secret, his mother’s last; and that whatever she’d said was more important than the key or anything retained in its box. This realisation haunted him. It made him pick up the telephone.

  ‘My name is Nicholas Glendinning,’ he said. ‘I understand you know my mother.’

  He pressed the receiver against his ear, to stop his hand from shaking. All he could make out was laboured breathing.

  ‘Can I meet you?’ said Nick, pressing harder.

  The air whistled in his ear. ‘Did she tell you about me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk about my mother.’

  The breathing grew calm. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Having noted the address, Nick rose and swivelled on his heels. Framed by the doorway was his father. His arms were almost raised. He looked like one of those entertainers in Covent Garden who don’t move until you give them some money.

  They looked at each other, both utterly still. Abruptly Charles grimaced and flicked a finger in the air, as if he’d remembered what he was looking for. Then he quickly shuffled upstairs.

  Nick sat on the sofa adjacent to a low table in the Shoreditch flat. The old woman was dressed in a yellow floral dress as if she were off to church or a summer garden party She wore earrings, a necklace and creaking leather shoes. The room was conspicuously tidy but very cold, even though a radiator clicked with activity. She’d had the windows open, and an air freshener had been used. Nick found the assembly of images and sensations unequivocally surreal. He could not imagine his mother traipsing up that filthy stairwell, or sitting here, before this apparition with silver hair and tragic eyes.

  ‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘Mrs Dixon,’ she said, clearing her throat at the same time. ‘Refreshment?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The low table was covered with a white cloth. It had been laid for a small reception. Mrs Dixon poured tea into ancient china cups. ‘Milk or lemon?’

  ‘Milk, thank you.

  A whole ritual unfolded, as if he were a vicar, or the squire. She offered Nick sugar, a teaspoon from the Isle of Man and a jammy dodger from a cake stand.

  ‘Your mother was my friend,’ she said proudly ‘The Council sent her along when I got lonely’

  ‘The Council’ had evidently explained that she was dead. The flat vowel in ‘lonely’ disclosed that Mrs Dixon was not a Londoner. Her accent had been softened, but the northern intonation in that one word was unmistakable. Before Nick could think of what to say Mrs Dixon spoke again.

  ‘She came here every week, on a Friday and we talked … mainly about me, and my family’ Delicately Mrs Dixon raised her cup. ‘She was full of questions, but it did me good to get things off my chest. It’s not good to keep things in, that’s what I say.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well done,’ she exclaimed.

  Nick sipped his tea, wondering how soon he might reasonably make his exit. But Mrs Dixon’s confidence had grown. There was something predatory about her delight. A biscuit?’ she said, pointing at the stand.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs Dixon settled back in her chair, her teacup and saucer resting in the middle of her chest. Looking over the top, she said, ‘I told her so much about myself, but I never asked about her … Do you mind telling me a little?’

  ‘What would you like to hear?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Well … anything really. Something that explains where she came from … Like I did, with her.’

  Nick surrendered to the circumstances, as his mother must have done, when she’d first realised what she’d let herself in for. Mrs Dixon’s question, however, was so broad that he didn’t know where to begin. And then he thought of the photograph.

  ‘We have this family portrait at home,’ he said thoughtfully ‘It shows my mother as a child with her parents.’

  The picture was in the sitting room at St John’s Wood. As a boy Nick used to study the sepia faces of the solemn man and his proud, buxom wife. They were stiff and unsmiling, in a happy sort of way obedient to the formality of their time. His neck was bound in a wing collar, and she was packed into a polka dot dress. Elizabeth was in the middle, her long hair scraped back and held by ribbons. An affectionate hand from her father had strayed onto her knee, unnoticed by the cameraman. There was a clock in the background and a tall dresser. Elizabeth used to say that her self-understanding — where she’d come from, who she’d become, her dispositions and their provenance — had been captured in that one photograph, with one explosion from the flash. It was her way of explaining to Nick why as he’d grown older, she’d become more reserved; and why there was a melancholy even in her smile. As a teenager, her quietness, her lack of bounce, had sometimes irritated him and, being a teenager, he’d told her. It made him sad, now, to think he could ever have held her to account, given the tragedy that overran that prim family in the photograph.

  Nick found himself explaining to Mrs Dixon how events had wiped clean his mother’s expectations before she was fifteen. That her father had died suddenly before her eyes.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Mrs Dixon, blinking over her teacup.

  ‘He just passed away like a light going out.’

  ‘But how?’

  A weak heart.’ Nick understood now, because Doctor Okoye had made the diagnosis.

  ‘What was her father like?’ asked Mrs Dixon after a moment.

  ‘My mother rarely spoke of him,’ replied Nick. ‘She once told me that not a day passed without her calling him to mind.’ Nick sipped his tea — it had gone cold with his talking — and then he said, strangely moved, ‘She said I was just like him …’ In saying that sentence to this dolled-up stranger, Nick, for the first time, understood his own adolescence, and his mother’s anguish as a parent. She’d tried to tell him why they’d fallen out of kilter, but he hadn’t understood.

  ‘And what of Elizabeth’s mother?’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘How did she fare?’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He paused, not wanting to divulge much more. ‘She died too — shortly afterwards, from septicaemia.’

  Mrs Dixon seemed visibly shocked, and Nick felt a stab of irritation, fearing that his mother’s life had become an episode in a kind of soap opera.

  ‘Thank you for t
elling me what happened to Elizabeth,’ said Mrs Dixon, placing her cup on the table. ‘I now understand why she came to look after me.

  ‘Really?’ asked Nick, curious now.

  ‘Yes … You see … I, too, have had my mishaps.’ She picked up a paper napkin. And I know what it’s like to lose someone and want them back. Of course, the Council had all this information in their files, and they’ll have told your mother. So when she knocked on my door, thank God, she didn’t bring just pity, she brought … herself.’ The napkin tore in her hands.

  Nick was ashamed of his earlier irritation with this poor woman who was genuinely distressed. He would have liked to leave, but now was the obvious time to put the one question that had brought him here. He said, ‘Before my mother died, she made a telephone call … to you.’

  Mrs Dixon nodded. Her mouth was set, and her eyes were suddenly vacant.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what she said?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Mrs Dixon appeared tragically isolated in her chair, the only one left at the garden party. ‘Elizabeth said … “I’m very sorry, but I won’t be coming any more.”’

  Nick was dumbfounded. The latter part of his mother’s life had been devoted to a scheme wholly personal in its objectives and significance. But her last words had been said to a forgotten woman halfway up a tower block who dressed up for a cup of tea; to the person who probably needed her most.

  5

  At the mention of going home, George whispered, ‘Can I?’ Are you ready?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘Yes.’ His features showed both desire and dread. He shifted in his seat.

  ‘If you forget my going,’ said Anselm confidently ‘I’ll surprise you when I get back.’ No truer words, he thought, had ever passed his lips. He was sure that Emily Bradshaw would be with him.

  More out of excitement than impatience, Anselm banged the knocker to the terraced house in Mitcham. A figure came to the door, fragmenting in a globe of dimpled glass.

  Emily Bradshaw stood at the bay window while Anselm, by the arm of a settee, felt the rigour of hesitation. She’d walked to her post without a word, without offering a seat. When the past comes to an end, thought Anselm, you panic. He knew exactly what he was going to say He’d chosen his words carefully on the Underground. ‘You told me last time that nothing comes of nothing.’

  Emily moved a net curtain with the back of one hand —just an inch. ‘I got it from The Sound of Music.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Sound of Music. The Captain and Maria sing it in the garden when everything falls into place.’ Emily spoke with immeasurable sadness. The hand fell to her side.

  Anselm became strong; these moments could be overcome. He sat down and spoke towards a happy ending. ‘I have seen George. He’s ready to come home.’

  ‘Yes, I know’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He came back.’ She raised a net curtain once more, looking out hopelessly.

  And he left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  The gate tapped shut and the front door opened. Anselm’s empathies dropped. They’d been tailored for a happy ending in Salzburg. He felt the coldness of real compassion. In the hallway feet stamped, shaking off the week. ‘Bloody hell, it’s cold. But it’s Frida-a-ay’ It was a reassuring sound, kindly and rooted. A zip hummed down its line.

  Emily moved to the middle of the room. She did not sit, so Anselm remained standing. She said, ‘George’s place isn’t filled. Don’t think that, please. I can’t understand our life together, that’s all. And if you can’t understand something, it’s …’

  A round freckled face, smudged with grease and surprise, appraised Anselm. ‘Oh, hullo, sorry about the swearing, like –’

  ‘Don’t worry. It is cold, I entirely agree.’

  ‘Peter, this is Father Anselm. He knows George.’

  The man’s hand was large, stamped with work and decency Anselm reached over. It had looked like an anvil, but when touched it became a fat sponge.

  Emily said, ‘Father Anselm was just about to go.

  Peter stood in the doorway like a roadblock. His blue overalls were parted, revealing the V-neck jumper, the shirt and tie. A slight paunch stretched the patterned wool. He took a shallow breath while practical, no-nonsense eyes seemed to weigh up a fractured joint, something basic that couldn’t be fixed. Peering through a sort of spray he said, ‘How is he?’

  ‘Fine. Not so bad,’ said Anselm, trapped between honesty to Peter and sensitivity to Emily.

  ‘Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is .’

  Anselm pictured the arrival of the big man, his ordered life folded up in cardboard boxes: a few pictures, his dad’s tin mug, some Corgi cars, mountains of underpants, a shoe-cleaning box. Anselm said, ‘George makes no claims.’ It was a strange announcement. He didn’t know why he’d said it.

  Peter rested blue arms on each pillar, his head aslant. He was balding. The remaining hair had been creased by a regulation hard hat. ‘Emily let him in. Take him back.’ He drew up the zip of his overalls, as if he’d just emerged from the locker room. ‘It’s his home.’

  Emily was crying. She pushed past Anselm and said, ‘Peter, would you make some tea?’

  ‘You’ll have one, Father?’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ sobbed Emily.

  At the door, one foot on the flags, Anselm said, ‘Is there anything you’d like me to say?’

  ‘Yes.’ Emily searched her pockets nervously.

  Anselm said, ‘I think I’ll be able to explain without saying anything.’ He was looking at Peter, out of earshot.

  Emily said, ‘Tell him …’ Her face crumpled. She fetched out a biro that had leaked and a receipt. With a slap at the air, she threw them against the wall and slammed the door.

  Anselm entered the ward. George was dressed, his knees crossed, one leg bobbing. He was like a granddad in a waiting room, ears cocked for an announcement. He’d been smartened up. The hair hadn’t quite taken to the parting, but the comb lines stood out. Someone had found an old blazer. It had a crest over the breast pocket with a motto: ‘Legis Plenitudo Caritas’. Love fulfils the law.

  Before Anselm could move, George swung him a quick look and grimaced. His feet slipped, despite the shoes, and he locked his wrists on the armrests. Bony shoulders took the strain of standing. Before Anselm could stop him, George was upright, a hand outstretched. ‘Elizabeth said you’d come,’ he exclaimed.

  Anselm felt the grip. It was reassuring; it was strong. He looked aside from cloudless eyes that revealed nothing but the sky.

  ‘Funny thing is’ — George laughed gently at the coming joke —’I’m not quite sure why’

  6

  Riley unscrewed the box casing that concealed the water pipes in the kitchen. Nancy stood behind him waiting for the news.

  ‘Not there,’ he said.

  ‘But he can’t get out,’ moaned Nancy ‘You said so yourself.’ Riley replaced the casing, thinking he shouldn’t have said that, because she’d latched on to it. He’d only expected a ten-minute look-around. But Nancy was ready to dismantle the building. She’d already made him check the washing machine, the dryer and the fridge. She wouldn’t give up. That glow of expectation in her cheeks was like the fog lights at Lawton’s.

  ‘I’ll check the bedroom.’ Her voice was tight with the strain. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said, thinking of the dark around Limehouse Cut.

  Nancy got down on all fours, one cheek flat on the carpet. Riley stood behind her, looking down. Her fastidious concentration was ridiculous to him.

  ‘Where are you, Arnold?’ whispered Nancy.

  Riley knelt beside her, as if to drink from a stream. ‘Not there,’ he said. These were bitter waters. He tasted one thing, and she another. His stomach turned, like it did in his dream.

  This charade was played out in every room until they returned to the kitchen and faced the empty cage. All at once Nancy slum
ped into a chair, pushing a hand through her hair, one elbow on the table. ‘He’s so small, and so weak.’

  The phrase threw up the days when Riley wore shorts. He’d been a small lad. Everything was heavy, even the shopping. He’d hated his weakness. Coming round, he noticed that Nancy’s shoulders were shaking. She’s laughing, he thought, with relief, and it brought a nervous giggle out of him. Like a thing on a ratchet-wheel, Nancy slowly looked up, and showed her tears.

  ‘How could you?’ she whispered in disbelief.

  Riley paled, thinking that she’d known all along; that she’d led him round the houses, giving him the chance to admit what he’d done. He panicked and sniggered again.

  ‘Go on, laugh,’ she howled, proud and defiant. ‘Join the rest of them who think that Nancy Riley’s such a joke.’ She hid her face with her hands.

  Riley waited for her to stop, but she didn’t. She moaned gently into her fingers, shaking her head, and he watched her, as if his mind were on a shelf, while his body against him, still wanted to laugh. The more he listened to Nancy’s grief, the longer he observed her covered face, the more he seemed to become separate from himself. He was retreating from this awful sight — he’d never seen her cry like this — but his lungs were ready to explode. Unable to stop himself, he began to laugh.

  Nancy lowered her fingers. Impassively she watched him — as he had watched her. With a pink tissue she dabbed each cheek as if she were putting on her make-up.

  Riley’s laughter wouldn’t end. Shuddering and out of control, his voice grew loud. He tried to stop it with a cough and a whistle, but it was no use. It was like being stripped down, and Nancy could see him for who he was. She didn’t storm out; she just kept crying and dabbing her cheeks, watching him like it was a sad film, a tragedy It turned into a sort of game: who was going to stop first, him or her? The thought allowed him to recover, because he didn’t want to win: he couldn’t bear to watch her any more. The hysteria was over. And yet …