by Tor Udall
In November, trucks of steaming mulch are carted across the Gardens. The giant compost heap is fuelled by fifty-two daily tonnes of manure. The rotting vegetation generates sixty-degree heat. As the mulch is tipped around the trees, the energetic spirit of the plants re-enters the roots. A little way along, a team are cleaning the Palm House glass with scouring pads taped on to poles. Algae and local traffic pollution are a constant problem. It is close to freezing outside, but these men scrub and sweat in the tropics.
In December, there is no tide of tourists washing in and out of the garden. With the sun low in the sky, Kew is a skeleton, the bare trees casting long shadows. Without the civilisation of his potting shed, Harry looks like a vagabond, his scarf knotted with bird droppings. He shuffles past the glasshouses as if they are ruins of a past romance. The garden embraces him, his toes growing mould, his trousers thickening with moss.
On a quiet and cloudy day, Harry stops at the flagpole. When the tree arrived it was three hundred and seventy years old. He helped the 23rd Field Squadron brace it with steel on the fifth of November 1959 – a Bonfire Night to remember. But the Douglas fir has been ravaged by woodpeckers and there’s now talk of taking it down next summer. Its absence will make Harry feel like the last man standing. He looks in the direction of the Ruined Arch, his blistered feet itchy. Absurd that he has never taken his own advice. Why are you pretending to be earthbound?
It is then that he sees them. It starts with a thickening in the air, then his eyes focus on a woman sitting on a bench, filling in a crossword. He walks up to her and notices the date on The Times: 1953. He glances at the plaque behind her.
‘Nancy? Nancy Drabble?’
‘Yes?’
But her eyes glaze over. She rubs her nose then returns to the clues she will be filling in for ever.
Harry’s chest twinges like a pulled muscle. He pats his pockets as if he’s lost a pair of spectacles. How many people have refused to let go of this place? As he stumbles along the path, he sees a mum in a fake-fur coat, pushing a pram. She wears it in every weather. Her baby is always a baby, so what happened to them – a train crash, a fire?
Along Pagoda Vista, he spots a man in uniform sitting on Duvan Novakovic’s bench; then, further along, is Vanessa Tunston, ‘who found peace in this garden’. There’s a woman in an empire-line dress, a photographer with an old-fashioned Leica; but their thoughts fidget. Their longing is like a radio frequency that bothers the air, a broken circuitry of echoes. They shake out their lives until all the missed opportunities tumble out. Too busy listing regrets, they don’t notice each other.
Harry doesn’t want to be the same. He doesn’t want to be unable to escape the nagging feeling that somehow he missed the boat. It seems like these people felt that at forty, or at seventy, until there was no sea left. They are mumbling to themselves about why they don’t want to leave. They’re frightened of hell, or waiting until their wife dies, or they know the results of the Cup Final – but these are excuses. They have all experienced insufficient happiness.
It knees Harry in the balls. He had thought he was too in love with life to move on, that these trees were all that mattered. He didn’t even know he had regrets until he met Audrey. He’s never been brave enough.
There is a foreign flickering in Harry’s gut: the taste of free will. As he walks to the Ruined Arch, the fading light glimmers. He stretches out his back, then bends his knees to peer through the centre of the folly. As he stares into this endless space, he prays that Kew’s plants are proof that the universe’s imagination exceeds his. But still it is a gamble. His existence doesn’t prove that there’s anything out there. He’s just a bundle of electrons, doing what they always did . . . spinning around the thing that they love . . .
Fiddling with the rim of his hat, he squints up at the darkening sky but no heavenly vision comes to guide him. He sits down on a nearby bench and takes out his notebook. His pencil stub is so small it chafes his fingers. He cocks his head to view the Arch from a different angle. He tries to concentrate on what might be waiting for him – the contours of his future, his freedom. He writes: Perhaps Audrey is out there.
At midnight he is still on the bench, as if he is waiting at a train station for a friend to arrive and wondering how much longer they will be. He’ll be damned if he’s going to be as scared of death as he was of living, but how can he leave? Here, in these Gardens, he needs more words for bliss. Words – that’s it. He stumbles across to the Redwood Grove, where he begins to dig. He pushes back the duff with his hands, turning the soil, until he finds a corner of white plastic. He buries deeper, unearthing a dozen shopping bags; then he sits back, wiping the mud off the logos.
Inside are over five hundred brown notebooks. He plans to leave his life’s work in the mess room. He switches on his torch and opens the nearest volume. But the page is empty; he can only make out an occasional outline of faded pencil. Turning over, there’s a few stubborn words, a date or two, then nothing. He opens a second book and another, but only the last three journals are legible.
The night sky is laughing. Once again he feels mocked by a God that he stopped believing in when he was fighting. But Hal was never worthy. How foolish he was to presume he could save things from dying. He desperately scans the last notebook, flicking through pages of mundane, miraculous moments. Then, as he continues to read about the plants and the dying, he feels a seasick hope that his existence mattered. To Milly, to Audrey – to every person who enjoyed the orchids.
As the sun rises, he is wearing a moss-covered suit and humble shoulders. Harry tears out the pages from his last two notebooks. He then fumbles in his pocket for the crumpled photograph of a day in Buffalo, New York. With trembling hands, he creases the falling limbs, the billboard signs, the bricks of a hotel, until he has made the base of a black-and-white bird. He does this with his writing too. He unfolds and refolds the stories he has been telling himself.
Master Yoshizawa said he tried to express with paper the joy of life, and the last thought before a man dies. And this is Harry’s attempt, his love letter. Perhaps someone visiting these redwoods will find it. They’ll toss the paper birds into the air, watch as they drop then are taken by a gust of wind. Their flimsy wings will fly over the city.
As dawn becomes day he stands in front of the Ruined Arch and takes a look at his choices. It’s going to be a beautiful winter; he can smell it. He picks some ivy and rubs it between his fingers. Taking in its scent, he remembers lying on the ground, that blue sky winking at him like a long-lost lover. Feeling the familiar seizure in his heart, he tries to retain his composure. Barefoot and suited, his hands are folded, as if he is standing in a pew at Sunday service. The thought of church reminds him of his first kiss as a ten-year-old behind the gravestones – her sherbety lips. Then the gravestones crumble into baking powder, the doughy scent of his mother. She wipes the flour from her hands and brings her mouth to his. What kiss is this? He’s forgotten so many. Here’s his six-year-old brother wrestling him to the ground, then giving him a slobbery kiss on his kneecap. Look, there he is, in his uniform, with Harry’s dying comrades. How they clung to his collar, their whispering lips caressing his earlobes. Then he sees Au. The surprises of that smile, the many weathers in her kiss. But these memories are making him dizzy, unsure. He stands at the threshold, trying to gather the balls. He doesn’t know what is next but he does know this. All it takes is one step.
In the space where he stood, there’s just smoke and rain. A puddle. Now Jonah is standing at the threshold – but not this threshold, the door of our flat. The story begins again, with a world rearranged.
The images repeat, like a record skipping, the scratch scratch of the same second. It always ends at the point where Harry stands in front of the Arch – or is it my bare feet, waiting to step forward?
Then I return to the beginning, to my husband staring at tulips.
Joe? Why are the flowers wilting?
Why do I keep thinking of kisses
?
Credits
The author and publishers acknowledge the following permissions to reprint copyright material:
Extracts appearing here, here, here, here, here from ‘Oh! You Pretty Things’ Words & Music by David Bowie © 1971. Reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publishing Ltd., London W1f 9LD. © copyright 1971 Chrysalis Music Limited, a BMG Chrysalis Company. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited. © copyright 1971 (Renewed 1999) Tintoretto Music. All Rights for Tintoretto Music administered by RZO Music ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.
Extract appearing here from This Business of Living: Diaries 1935–50 by Cesare Pavese. Reprinted by permission of Transaction Publishers.
Photograph of Genesee Hotel Suicide by Russell Sorgi here used with kind permission of SUNY Buffalo State Archives & Special Collections
A Note on Kew Gardens
The Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew is a major character in this novel. As a living entity, it is constantly changing. A Thousand Paper Birds is an impressionist painting of the Gardens rather than a realistic representation. For narrative purposes I have, at times, compacted dates or let fiction overrule. For instance, the pagoda was opened to the public in 2006, not 2005. The clay sculpture of Mother Earth was the focal point of a biodiversity garden designed by Mary Reynolds as part of Kew’s Go Wild summer festival in 2003. Kew’s summer concerts are centred around modern, not classical, music. I have not included the draining of the lake and the opening of the Sackler Crossing in May 2006. In reality, the lake is pretty shallow.
The wonderful Wounded Angel I sculpture by Emily Young was in Kew Gardens from 2003. Also referenced is the bronze sculpture The Profile of Time by Salvador Dalí. Sadly, both have since been removed. The inscription on Audrey’s bench was inspired by the Franz Schubert quote: ‘Some people come into our lives, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never the same.’
I am indebted to Kew’s magazine and website for being a constant source of exceptional information. The many books written about the Gardens have also been a valuable resource and the BBC series, A Year at Kew, helped me understand a little more about the daily experience of working there. Any inaccuracies are entirely my own. I hope that all horticulturists and Kew enthusiasts will forgive my mistakes – I can only hope that my love for the Gardens shines through.
I would like to thank all the staff at Kew for their brilliant and important work. They are not only striving to sustain one particular garden, but the beauty of the world. You can find out more about this extraordinary place at www.kew.org.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to . . .
Jan and Steve Udall for your unwavering faith. You have supported me in so many ways. Without your love, and your belief in me, this book would not exist.
The entire Currie family for your encouragement throughout.
nowhere for your generous support during the writing of this book – in particular Nick Udall, Marc Cornwell and Andrea Turner. Also thanks to Joe Knowles for filming the book trailer, and to Boz Kay, Jane James and Judith Hemming for your friendship and phenomenal wisdom.
Francesca Main, Hannah Griffiths, Rachel Malig, Jonathan Pegg, Arabella Pike and Alice Williams – your early support kept me going.
Andrew Gordon, Judith Murray, Carrie Kania, Carrie Plitt and Jo Unwin for falling in love with this novel and for your invaluable insights on earlier drafts.
The Festival of Writing in York for being the catapult that fired me into an agent frenzy, and to Andrew Wille for being such an astute guide. Your sensitivity and general cheerleading are both tonic and balm. Thanks also to the great writers I met at the Festival, especially Deborah Install, Amanda Saint and Sadie Hanson. And to Shelley Harris for being absolutely gorgeous!
The inimitable Sam Bain for brilliant advice, and the mesmerising Ben Okri for an enchanting afternoon in Soho House discussing the power of stories while a snowstorm swirled outside.
My fellow writers, Deborah Andrews and Eleanor Anstruther, for being on the journey with me. For picking me up, for cheering me on, for understanding that each day when we leave the boxing ring, the only person we have been fighting with are ourselves. You are such talented and inspiring beauties.
Dr Annette Steele for medical advice and for making her life a work of art. Philip Raby for reading early drafts and for teaching me the word mudita. Jean Littlejohn and the late Julia Caprara for being, like my mum, inspiring examples of what it is to be a creative woman.
All my friends for your support over many decades, especially Mita Pujara, Josh Towb, Sean Blair, Nizami Cummins, Caroline Udall, Julie Paul, Manuela Harding, Medan Gabbay and Jenny Lenhart.
Julie McBride and Simon Massey for sharing your experience of grief so vividly. Mass – you are loved beyond words.
The many teams involved in helping me obtain permission for ‘Oh! You Pretty Things’: a rather daunting task! In particular, I would like to thank Leah Mack for your generous guidance throughout and the brilliant Richard Palk and Mich Gadvhi for making initial introductions. What fine gentlemen you are!
Everyone at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, particularly Richard Deverell and Magda North. My thanks also to Nina Davies and Aurelie Grall for showing me around the herbarium so gracefully.
Peter Engel for his book Origami from Angelfish to Zen. His interview with Master Akira Yoshizawa inspired many of my thoughts regarding origami and was also where I found the wood-block print by Katsushika Hokusai that inspired Chloe’s tattoo: A Magician Turns Sheets of Paper into Birds.
To the artists who have inspired me – including Tori Amos, Mary Reynolds, and Emily Young for creating the Wounded Angel series. And, of course, a big thank you to David Bowie for enriching our world.
Special thanks to everyone at Andrew Nurnberg Associates – you are such a brilliant team. And to my wonderful agent, Jenny Savill, I am so glad that you are on this journey with me. Your love of this book, and your friendship, have been true gifts.
A huge thank you to my incredibly talented and wise editor, Alexa von Hirschberg – and a bow of gratitude to the entire Bloomsbury team, especially the amazing Imogen Denny, Cal Kenny, Philippa Cotton, Joe Thomas, Lea Beresford and Alexandra Pringle. I would also like to thank my copy editor, Sarah-Jane Forder, for her immaculate work (love really is in the detail), Emma Ewbank for her exquisite jacket design, and Livi Gosling for her beautiful map of Kew.
A final thank you to . . .
My grandmother, Audrey Beaney, for encouraging me to write. I’m so glad that just before she died, at the ripe old age of a hundred and one, I was able to tell her that A Thousand Paper Birds would fly.
My children, Willow and Theo – for teaching me all the shades of love, and all the different shapes of laughter.
And to Tom, for all the kisses past and present – and for all the kisses that are to come.
A Note on the Author
After studying theatre and film, Tor Udall co-founded a dance-theatre company and spent most of her twenties directing, writing and performing. A Thousand Paper Birds is her first novel. She lives in London with her husband and young children.
@TorUdall
First published in Great Britain 2017
This electronic edition published in 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Tor Udall, 2017
Illustrations copyright © Livi Gosling, 2017
Tor Udall has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements constitute an extension of this copyright page.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The mo
ral right of the author has been asserted
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