Everything in the Garden
Page 26
‘No. Please. I don’t want to think about it. Not now anyway. It’s like finding out the correct answers after you’ve done an exam. Pointless.’
‘You’re an amazing woman.’ He rolled on to his front, resting his forehead on his folded arms.
She reached out and rubbed her hand across his back then snuggled against him.
They realised afterwards that they’d slept for over an hour.
Hand in hand, they strolled back to the road. An estate car had parked behind theirs, the open back revealing deckchairs and a parasol. Several children were chasing around the oil-stained tarmac, whooping and shrieking.
‘I used to despise people who did that.’ She nodded towards the family, positioning a white plastic table on the grass verge, within feet of the passing traffic. ‘But it’s fine isn’t it?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘What right have I got to tell anyone what they should, or shouldn’t, do?’
31
Tom manoeuvred the car through the crush of vehicles in the yard and stopped near the back door. ‘Go on in, love. I’ll bring everything.’
It had been ten days since Prosser had marched her out of the house, at knife-point, but everything looked the same. Advertising fliers littered the top of the washing machine. Roses in the purple vase, heads dipped, dropped petals on the sill. A cot blanket hung over the back of the dining chair. And the same smell which had filled their kitchens, wherever they lived, told her she was home.
Tom dumped her holdall and several carrier bags of gifts on the kitchen table.
The house was quiet except for its own soothing sounds. Clocks. Flies. The fridge. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.
‘In the summerhouse. I’m afraid they’ve got champagne and stuff. I couldn’t stop them. You know what Jenny’s like.’
There was no point in berating him. ‘They will have to manage without me. I’m going to have a long soak in the bath, then I want to finish my book.’
‘But couldn’t you just…?’
‘I could but I’m not going to. Tomorrow I intend to get up early and check the garden. There’s sure to be a glut of beans after the rain. I need to get them picked and in the freezer before they go to waste.’
Tom hovered in the doorway, miserable, waiting for her to reconsider. ‘What d’you want me to tell them?’
‘Thank them very much and explain that I’m tired and that I’ll see them tomorrow. Cheer up, love, they rarely shoot the messenger.’
When he’d gone, she carted her things up to their bedroom. The door was ajar and she peeped in before entering. There were no clothes heaped on the bedside chairs or protruding from half-shut drawers. She drew her finger along the tops of the picture frames but they were free of dust. Sharp creases quartered the pillowcases and washing-powder scented the air. Someone had changed the bedding that morning.
There was a knock on the open door. Arthur, barefoot, stood on the threshold. He smiled and ran across to her open arms. ‘I sneaked up ’cos I wanted to make sure you were all right. Tom said you were fine but grownups don’t always tell the truth, do they?’
‘Some of them don’t, but Tom does.’
‘D’you tell the truth?’
‘Not always.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, lots of reasons but usually it’s because I don’t want to upset anyone. For example, what if I were to ask you whether you think I’m pretty? You might think I’m ugly but not want to hurt my feelings by saying so.’
‘People shouldn’t ask, if they don’t want the truth, should they? And, anyway, I think you are beautiful. You’ve got interesting hair.’ He pulled a curl that had escaped the combs, watching it spring back when he released it.
When she unpacked, the stale-disinfectant smell of the hospital still clung to the clothes she’d worn there. Arthur, wrinkling his nose in distaste, helped her dump everything in the laundry basket. One of the carrier bags was full of get-well cards and he arranged them like tiles, on the floor, counting as he went. ‘…twenty-two, twenty-three,’ then stood back to look at his handiwork. ‘This one’s my favourite.’ The card he held up showed purple irises sketched in bold watercolour strokes. ‘It just says “Bill”. That’s funny, there’s no message. Not even a kiss.’
When everything had been put away, they sat together on the bed. He took a twist of dark green tissue paper from the pocket of his baggy shorts and held it out to her. ‘Open it.’ He grinned, his milk teeth white and shining, like square pearls against his tanned face. She made a great show of opening the tiny package, while he bounced up and down. ‘It’s a fossil,’ he said, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘I found it on the beach once, when we went to Lyme-something-or-another. Dad says it might be a million years old.’
A split pebble, almost hemispherical, revealed on its inner surface the segmented spiral of an ammonite. She brushed her fingertips across it, awed by the direct connection with prehistory.
‘You do like it?’
‘I love it. But it’s yours, Art.’
‘Dad says it’s magic. It’ll keep you safe forever.’
He was standing now, palms resting on her knees, warm through her cotton trousers. She kissed his forehead. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep it with my most precious things. And shall I tell you what I think we should do? Before the end of the school holidays, I think we should go to the seaside, you and I.’
‘And Tom?’
‘And Tom, if you like. And we’ll look for another ammonite, so that you’ve got one to keep you safe too. How does that sound?’
The little boy smiled and leaned in towards her. ‘Can Dad and Maddy and Seren come with us? We could find fossils for everyone.’
Tom appeared at the door, carrying two mugs of tea. ‘I thought you could do with this. Hello, Art. Your dad’s looking for you.’
The child skipped off down the stairs, singing as he went.
‘How’s the party going?’
‘It’s getting quite lively. To be honest, I think they’ve forgotten what it’s supposed to be for. Maddy and Flora are arguing about whether money’s for spending or saving. Your father’s gone to sleep. Mark and Celia are singing. Tal’s looking after Seren. Pete and I had another set to but I ran out of steam. If he’s that determined to live in a place with a swimming pool, we might as well go ahead. Life’s too short.’
They sat on the bed, drinking tea. She shut her eyes and put her head back on the familiar pillow. ‘Home.’
‘Is it?’ Tom lay beside her.
‘I love this little valley and the garden here. It’s wonderful to have my own studio. But wherever we’ve lived, it’s always felt the same. It’s happened again here. I suppose we carry it with us wherever we go. Am I making sense? Home is us.’
‘Now who’s sounding wet?’
Next morning she was up before seven o’clock. Tom stirred but didn’t argue when she kissed him and told him to stay where he was. The party had gone on late and several times during the night she had surfaced from a dream, hearing giggles and thuds as the revellers returned. Once she heard Seren wake for her feed, then fell back to sleep, Maddy’s soft lullaby working on granddaughter and grandmother alike. And whenever she reached out, Tom was at her side.
Anxious not to wake the dreamers, she skipped her shower. She tip-toed downstairs, pausing on the landing to glimpse the valley, perfect in the morning freshness. The sky was forget-me-not blue, criss-crossed with fluffy vapour trails. Where were those planes heading? America? China? Had Sally flown overhead on her way to India, or was that in the other direction? One day she and Sally might meet and compare notes on these strange days.
There were no glasses left in the kitchen cupboard and she poured orange juice into a mug. In her studio the pottery animals waited, two by two, on the shelf. She picked up the pigs. Would a little girl want to play with these hard, cold animals? They should be made of something soft and forgiving, something warm to her touch, like the living creatures
they portrayed. She would ask Arthur for his opinion.
The tool shed was in chaos. The girls always teased Tom about the way he fussed with his tools, never failing to return each one to its proper place. ‘If I needed a bow-saw one dark night, when the electricity fails and we’ve run out of candles, I could put my hand right on it.’ The girls had shrieked with laughter at the idea of their father sawing away in the pitch darkness. Tom must have been distraught, to have left his things scattered about like this. Eventually she located the hoe and a bucket.
The doors of the summerhouse were shut when she passed. Two lumpy forms curled up in sleeping bags occupied the sofas, recumbent sailors in a sea of bottles, glasses, plates and crisp packets. It had been quite a party.
She opened the wicket gate which led to the vegetable garden. The rattle of the latch alerted several blackbirds feasting on the raspberries, and they shrieked a warning as they made off, beaks laden with fat berries. A nettle caught her unbandaged ankle and she bent to pick a dock leaf, rubbing its juice into the tiny white blisters.
She made her way along the mown path which skirted the gardens. The Webbers had pulled up the scruffy currant bushes inherited with the property, and seeded their plot with grass. The ground undulated gently and now, after months of attention, looked as if it were covered with a gigantic velvet bedspread. A cane, painted with black and white bands and topped with a triangular pennant, pinpointed the hole.
As a result of Eric’s expertise, the Redwoods’ garden sported a stunning array of vegetables and flowers for cutting. In the corner there was a sturdy compost bin, constructed from slatted boards. She raised the lid an inch or two and saw the spinach and lettuce which had gone straight from garden to compost bin, without going anywhere near the kitchen. Jenny led a busy life and rarely had time to cook.
Anna paused at the bottom of Bill’s plot, overgrown with couch grass and dandelions. Here and there, a rhubarb crown or wilting potato vine poked above the weeds. He’d tried hard, in the beginning, but it took no time at all for nature to reclaim lost ground.
Ten days had passed since she was last here. The runner beans, unchecked, had outstripped their framework of bamboo canes and they waved in the light breeze, tendrils searching for something to cling to. Bees homed in on the scarlet flowers, ensuring the next flush. The rough-skinned crop hung in swathes and soon she’d picked enough to fill the bucket.
She moved along the rows of vegetables, sliding the shiny blade of the hoe beneath the surface of the soil, severing the roots of the opportunist chickweed and groundsel. They would all go on the heap to rot down, in time forming crumbly black compost to feed the ground and complete the cycle.
At the bottom corner, nearest the path, she’d worked a small area to a fine tilth. This was the seedbed, where she’d formed the shallow drill and planted the cabbage seed. She crouched down, searching. There it was, a thread of green, breaking through the powdery soil. No more than a tiny pair of leaves, each seed was starting to perform its magic. Under the hedge she found a sturdy twig, driving it into the baked ground to mark the row. She took the empty packet from her shirt pocket and pushed it on to the stick. In a month or so, the seedlings would be big enough to plant out in rows across the garden, and if they survived the pest attacks, the winter frosts and the raging gales, they would be ready to eat in the spring.
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Honno Welsh Women’s Press was set up in 1986 by a group of women who felt strongly that women in Wales needed wider opportunities to see their writing in print and to become involved in the publishing process. Our aim is to develop the writing talents of women in Wales, give them new and exciting opportunities to see their work published and often to give them their first ‘break’ as a writer. Honno is registered as a community co-operative. Any profit that Honno makes is invested in the publishing programme. Women from Wales and around the world have expressed their support for Honno. Each supporter has a vote at the Annual General Meeting. For more information and to buy our publications, please write to Honno at the address below, or visit our website: www.honno.co.uk
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© Jo Verity, 2005
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The author would like to stress that this is a work of fiction and no resemblance to any actual individual or institution is intended or implied.
print ISBN: 9781870206709
ebook ISBN: 9781906784706
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Cover photograph by Nicola Schumacher