After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘You do realize you can drive over 30mph here?’

  I open the side door and catch Jack’s face as he turns to me. ‘I promised your mom I wouldn’t take it above forty.’ I draw myself up and onto the van floor. My head disappears under his chair as I scramble for the lock. ‘Now, how do I unlock this thing?’

  ‘Press the release hatch.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Unlock the brakes.’

  I smack my head on his armrest when I eventually resurface. ‘Ouch.’ I rub the back of my hair. ‘Okay, now what?’

  ‘Now press that button right there to let the ramp down.’

  A soft whirring accompanies a flat metal platform gliding out from under the van flooring. It extends about one meter outside the van then lowers gently down.

  ‘Oh cool, it’s automatic. Finally something in this van is.’

  ‘I would hope so, we paid enough for it.’

  I raise an eyebrow – ‘We?’

  ‘Okay, Captain America, get me out of here.’

  ‘Yes, Boss,’ I smile. I push the same button and up the ramp goes.

  ‘Wow, you figured that one out all on your own,’ mutters Jack.

  I smile, quite pleased with myself. I got him here, I got him out, and when I return him back to his palace, I’d have proven that I can handle this, that I can handle something.

  The weather is perfect. Warm enough to remove my cardigan but not too warm as to make me regret the long-sleeved shirt underneath. My visor is slightly itchy on the forehead so I throw it onto the passenger seat before I lock up.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I turn and see one of the volunteers beside us. She’s wearing almost exactly the same outfit as me, except hers comes with a pretty impressive clipboard and bright purple pen with a flower on the end. ‘Hi, welcome to Godolphin Garden. Are you here to support an existing group or just wander around? We have some beautiful flowers to the left of the entrance.’

  ‘We actually have adopted our own little patch. I spoke to someone called Linda about it yesterday?’

  ‘Oh, okay, Linda, yes. Well, it’s probably one of the empty patches beside the fountain so once you’re through the gates, just head to your right and you’ll see it. There should be a little sign with your name on it in the soil. Do you need tools?’

  ‘Tools?’

  ‘Shovels, shears, trowel, loppers, forks—’

  ‘Yes to everything.’

  ‘I’ll bring it over. So you know, the lot closes at five o’clock.’

  ‘We won’t be here that long,’ Jack says, not meeting her in the eye.

  ‘Five p.m., good to know,’ I say.

  ‘You know, next time you come, there are reserved spaces up front and they have a little stone path leading into the garden just in case it rains and the ground is soft.’

  ‘Spaces up front?’ I ask.

  ‘Disabled spaces. It’s indicated by yellow marking on the ground. You have a mobility sticker on your windscreen.’

  I turn to where her finger is pointing and see a small square sticker with a wheelchair symbol on it.

  Disabled.

  I can’t help glancing over at Jack when the volunteer leaves. His eyes are cast down on the ground and his cheeks are slightly flushed. I want to tell him not to be embarrassed, that it’s a stupid word that means nothing. But I don’t. Because I don’t want to draw more attention to it, and because it does mean something. That one word – disabled – means everything. It means a person who’s physically unable to do everything a regular person can do. And if he’s not regular, if he’s not ‘normal’ – whatever that means – then he’s irregular, he’s ‘abnormal.’ Nothing I can say here will make him feel better. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him here, this was a stupid idea. ‘Planting a garden to have something concrete to watch grow’ or whatever I said to him.

  He slides a pair of Ray-Bans out his shirt pocket and hides his eyes. ‘Alright, let’s do this.’

  The wheels occasionally get stuck in clumps of mud and grass but we make it eventually to the gate, then to our little patch.

  My name is written on a small chalkboard shaped like a flower, piercing the top layer of soil of a very messy, very overgrown area. I’d requested a tall planter box based on the fact neither of us were in any physical state to be kneeling on the ground, bent over a patch of earth. I stand beside him, miniature rake in one hand and shovel in the other. ‘Right, I’m thinking we just start pulling the weeds out then raking the soil?’

  ‘What’s the shovel for?’

  ‘Um, I don’t know. Digging out rocks?’

  ‘Rocks?’

  ‘Okay, look, I’ve never done this before. I’m not much of a gardener myself. Or an outdoorsy kinda person.’

  ‘No, really? I’d never have guessed.’ He stares at the patch of earth, looking understandably perplexed. Then he shakes his head. ‘Can’t believe I’m doing this,’ he mumbles as he starts yanking weeds.

  The sun beats warm on our backs as we pull weeds for at least an hour or so, unwinding roots from larger clumps of soil. I don’t let on but I’m exhausted after twenty minutes and ready for an ice-cold drink and a nap. Our patch looks a little tidier, a little more worthy of the herbs I’d bought from a ridiculously expensive garden center just outside the city. We’re the only ones in this section, but voices carry towards us across the flower heads and grass tips, reminding us this is a shared space; a space to enjoy as a community. And that’s what I’m trying to do here, create a community for Jack.

  ‘Right, I’m just about ready for a break. You?’

  ‘Oh, thank God, I thought it was just me. I’m exhausted already. My hands are on fire. This rake is not comfortable, these gloves itch like crazy and I’m starving.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Jack laughs and puts his hands down on his wheels.

  ‘Wait, stay right there.’ I slide out my old Polaroid from my tenth birthday and position it at eye-level. I don’t wait for him to say ‘no’ before I press the button.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’m documenting our summer.’

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Assuming you’ll want to keep hanging out,’ I mutter, feeling my cheeks warm and redden.

  ‘Are you going to make a scrapbook for me?’ he teases. He tries to back himself away from the planter box, but his wheels stick in the grass. He mumbles something, then starts moving the wheel back and forth, but that just seems to be digging him into the earth deeper. ‘It’s fine,’ he quickly says, laughing nervously. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ He continues wiggling the wheels, then using the planter box as leverage tries to push himself off. ‘I think I’ve almost got it.’

  It doesn’t look that way at all, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to take over. He can do this. Now he’s starting to sweat, the smile fading from his face. I don’t want him to get annoyed and have his day ruined by this so I move in. ‘Here, let me.’ But I can’t shift him, one wheel seems to be wedged between a small incline in the ground and a divot in the grass. I try lifting his chair over it, but it’s so heavy it barely moves a quarter inch up. Maybe if I bend my knees, put more back into it. Nope, that doesn’t work and only prompts a twinge in my spine. Finally, I resort to just shaking him back and forth, hoping to break away more ground beneath the wheels.

  ‘Alice!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to knock me out the chair.’

  ‘Oh sorry.’ I release the handles and he tips back into the wedge. ‘We’re stuck.’

  ‘I’m stuck,’ he says quietly.

  ‘No, we’re stuck. I’m not exactly going to leave you … actually, I am. I’ll ask someone for help—’

  ‘No, don’t—’

  I start walking away from him. ‘I’m sure there’s someone just down here.’

  ‘Alice, wait, I don’t want any help. I can do this myself.’ He leans to the side and fra
ntically slams his hand into the wheel. It’s not going anywhere.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ I head back to the main gates as he shouts my name again. I don’t turn around. I know he doesn’t want help, but the longer he stays stuck in a patch of earth, the more he’s going to hate it here, and hate his new life.

  Mud sticks to the toe of my boots and sweat still drips down my face after battling that chair. When I get to the gate, I don’t see the volunteer who greeted us in the beginning. All I see are people. Everywhere. They pile out of a long bus, out of cars, vans, and start filing through the entrance. One large group looks like an outing from some kind of a summer camp, there’s at least twenty to thirty people here. Another group look like retirees from a nursing home as some use walking sticks and are supported by nurses wearing lilac smocks and name tags. Whoever they are, there’s a lot of them. Too many of them. I can’t see their faces, I can’t see their eyes. They’re strangers, all of them. A fallen shovel against a car door startles me and as I turn to find the noise, more banging and clanging sound off. Then a car alarm, only for a few moments, but enough for me to find myself back there, back in Leicester Square.

  The sounds of the bombing erupts in my ears. The car alarms, the screams, the shattering of glass. I drop to the ground but the grass beneath me starts to dissolve, disappearing in front of me. Now I see glass, dust, debris, and blood. It’s happening again—

  ‘Alice?’

  Suddenly, everything around me is silent. Then voices of excited school children, families and elderly people filter back in. There’s grass all around me. I’m not on the street in the city. I’m in a garden.

  I’m safe.

  ‘Alice?’

  I slowly look up and see Jack. A tall volunteer stands behind him. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I quickly scramble to my feet. ‘I was just looking for … um …’

  ‘It’s okay, I found help,’ Jack says.

  My whole body is drenched in sweat, and I’m shaking. ‘I’m fine,’ I splutter.

  ‘Let’s go home.’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, let’s go home.’ I walk back to the van, still trembling.

  ‘That was fun,’ Jack says. It’s definitely a lie but I appreciate his effort. ‘Where to tomorrow?’

  Jack

  ‘Um, are you sure about this?’ I glance up at Alice who stands at the entrance to the train station, her toes not yet over the threshold. She insisted we take the train into London today after what happened at the garden but now that we’re here, I’m not sure if she can do it. We’ve been standing at this entrance for fifteen minutes now while she just stares inside at the fast-moving commuters. ‘We don’t need to take trains. We’ve got the van, and if you don’t feel comfortable driving then I can ask Martin. I’m sure he’ll say yes.’

  ‘No. It’ll be so much faster if we can get around the city on trains. Plus I need to do this at some point and I’d rather do it with you here.’ She starts breathing heavily. ‘Yesterday was tough.’

  ‘Don’t push yourself if you’re not ready.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ she whispers, although I think she’s talking to herself not me.

  An alarm sounds overhead, alerting passengers to an incoming train. ‘Okay, well, if you’re sure, then that’s our train,’ I say.

  Her eyes flick up to the screen. ‘Oh. That was fast. Okay.’ She edges through the entrance and up to the barrier, scanning her Oyster card. An attendant quickly lets me through the extra-wide gate, but I struggle to keep up with Alice. She darts between exiting passengers and continues pushing forward to the platform. The train is just pulling in when we get there. It screeches to a halt, the sound throbbing my ears. She cups her ears with her palms and looks at me. I gesture to the opening doors but she doesn’t move. People swerve around us like a river around a rock. I wheel myself to the yellow lines but I can’t get over the lip of the train. ‘Alice?’

  She rushes to my handle and thrusts me on, jumping in behind me. The doors slam shut immediately after. She collapses onto the row of seats beside me, beads of sweat along her hairline. She pants heavily.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she gasps. ‘I’d just forgotten how busy the trains get. The buses are so quiet.’

  ‘It’s London. It’s always busy.’

  She wipes the sweat with the back of her hand and leans into the seat. She closes her eyes. I can’t tell if she’s meditating or what, so I keep an eye out for our stop. More and more people push on at each station, struggling to get around my chair. I mutter apologies and shift forward then back, then forward again. Alice’s eyes are still pressed shut, her jaw clenched tight. The stops get more frequent as we get further from the quiet Surrey countryside, and closer to the bustling city centre.

  ‘Alice?’ I whisper. ‘We’re almost at Waterloo.’

  Her eyes pop open and lock onto the crowd that’s quickly formed inside the train.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I mumble to people, gesturing to the exit door as we start to make our way off the train. Alice eases my chair off the edge back onto the platform. The doors close behind us.

  Waterloo station is packed. Lunchtime work crowds battle passengers and tourists for ticket queues and food carts. The shops here are rammed, with long queues snaking outside Costa and the ticket office. Shopping bags, backpacks, suitcases, briefcases, handbags, takeaway sandwiches, coffee cups. Everyone carries something. Babies crying, tourists squealing in excitement as they take selfies, people talk loudly on phones as they rush to the tube to continue their journeys. The speakers overhead struggle with the station noise, announcing continued security restrictions. Police officers in black uniform roam the station concourse, and hover near the entrances and exits.

  A woman hurries up to one of the officers, bags in hand. ‘Excuse me, are trains still stopping at Leicester Square?’

  Leicester Square.

  Their voices dull and fade, as a wave of nausea hits me. I glance up anxiously at Alice, wondering if she just heard that too. She stands in the concourse, completely ashen. Her mouth is agape and her shoulders start trembling. She definitely heard that conversation too.

  ‘Alice?’

  She doesn’t respond.

  ‘Alice?’ I touch her hand. She’s cold. Her breathing is getting heavier, louder. Soon she’s gasping, like she’s choking. Is she really choking? She clutches her chest and closes her eyes.

  ‘Alice.’ I grab her shoulders as she huddles into my chair, curling her knees up into her chest.

  I glance over at the police officers, who stand with their backs to us. I remember seeing a guy who’d just run his first marathon. He’d sat with his head between his legs, a foil blanket around his shoulders while event medics calmed him down, rubbing his back. They encouraged him to have sugary drinks and snacks. They breathed slowly with him and counted from ten. I’d thought at the time he was having a heart attack, but my dad said his body was going through some kind of shock, perhaps from overexertion or inadequate hydration or nutrition. I’m assuming Alice is properly hydrated and fed, and hasn’t recently run a marathon, so I presume she’s OK in those areas. But I should try and calm her down, before the police sees us. ‘Alice, take a deep breath. It’s OK,’ I whisper.

  She grips my armrest on the chair, still gasping for breath.

  ‘Breathe slowly. I’m going to count down from ten, OK?’

  Her eyes are still closed, her face white. What if she passes out?

  ‘10 … 9 … 8 …’

  Her breath hitches.

  ‘7 … 6 …’

  Then it slows.

  ‘5 … 4 …’

  Her shoulders stop shaking.

  ‘3 … 2 …’

  Her grip on my chair loosens and her hands drop to her knees.

  ‘1.’

  She opens her eyes and glances up at me. Her eyes water and her cheeks warm red like her hair. My hand is still around her. I slowly drop it and return my hands to my lap. She looks around th
e concourse, glancing up at people as they pass us.

  ‘No one saw,’ I lie.

  She nods then struggles back up to her feet. She smooths down her dress, which matches her grey tights. She takes a deep breath and stares down at the ground. ‘Can we go back now?’

  Alice

  I sleep terribly that night. Distorted memories of the bombing colliding with images of sharp green grass, abandoned fields and rows of blood-red tulips. When I eventually peel my eyelids open and let the sun in, I see my dad dressed in casual wear standing in the doorway. He holds a steaming mug of coffee and a plate. ‘Good morning,’ he smiles. He pushes the door further open and comes closer. When he sits and slides the plate onto my bedside table, I see two croissants already smeared with butter.

  ‘Where’s Mom?’ I mumble, still foggy from my nightmare.

  ‘She’s downstairs, but I wanted to sort breakfast for you this morning. I didn’t know if you still like these for breakfast, so I made some oatmeal with brown sugar too. And also a big fruit bowl with yogurt.’

  ‘They call it porridge here, Dad.’ I reach for a croissant and slowly sit up to take a flaky bite. Pastry shards drop from my lips.

  ‘I thought it might be nice if we spent time together today. Maybe you can show me more of the neighborhood?’

  ‘I’d love to but I’m meeting Jack today.’

  ‘Again? Where?’

  ‘Mrs A’s helped me organize something in the city for him.’

  ‘The city? Alice, I don’t know about this.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Dad.’ My mind wanders back to the train station. I don’t know what set me off. It could have been the crowds, the noise, the police. All of it. Whatever is going on with me is happening more frequently. But I can’t tell him that or I won’t be allowed out again.

  ‘Sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  He nods, and pats my leg on top of the quilt then eases himself off the bed, and heads for the door. ‘Open or closed?’

  ‘Closed, please.’

  Jack’s mom is standing beside the van when I walk up. ‘Good morning, Alice.’