by Eleanor Ray
It couldn’t have been very nice for Scarlett, listening to the sounds of arguments all day. Amy rested her hand briefly on the robin’s back, then peeled her own blazer off and draped it over a box with the others. She remembered her patient and went to the box it was sitting on to investigate. Very gently, she lifted off the books, one by one, then unfurled the bubble wrap she’d used as a bandage. ‘Excellent,’ she said, lifting the mug. It had a thin and wobbly line running down it, like dry cracked earth, but it was structurally sound once again. She picked up the mug and put it against her face. She felt an exchange of energies: warmth from her cheek heating the mug, and the cold china cooling her in return. The line where she’d mended the break made a little indentation in her own face. A mirrored wrinkle. Amy felt a moment of completeness. She imagined drinking from it, the glorious exchange of fluid. It was time. She went to the kitchen to make tea, taking the mug with her.
It was a shame she had to give it back, she decided. It would be a great new addition to her collection. Even stacked as high as she could reach, her mugs took up most of her countertops, but they were such beautiful colours she didn’t mind at all. It was like having a lovely but fragile rainbow in her kitchen. And it wasn’t as if it was worth cooking anything complicated anyway. At least not just for her.
She glanced out of the window, listening to the bubbly hiss of the kettle.
Then she froze.
She blinked, then looked again.
Although she rarely went out there, Amy loved to admire her back garden through her kitchen window. It was very different to the front, which was well-ordered and full of her beautifully potted plants. The back was a private little nature reserve, untidy but ruggedly beautiful. Not through neglect, she told herself, but through generosity to wildlife. She stored her empty terracotta pots out there, stacked on top of one another like the turrets of a tower. Some of her pots were large – big enough to house a modest olive tree, and others were more petite, just right for herbs such as sage or lavender. A few of the larger ones were on their side, making small caves that Amy imagined the squirrels would enjoy. While each pot had been waiting for its perfect plant, the opportunistic ivy had taken hold, concealing some in a rich green disguise. Even Amy had to admit she’d amassed rather an impressive collection over the years.
Nettles had sprung up, and she’d let them thrive. She was sure she’d read somewhere that they were good for caterpillars, and she did love seeing butterflies fluttering around her space.
But her favourites were the brambles. They’d overtaken about a third of the garden, creating a small prickly forest. Now they were covered in modest white blossoms, but by the end of summer they’d bring forth an abundant crop of blackberries. Amy always resisted the urge to pick them, instead allowing the birds to feast. There was nothing more joyful than watching a family of blackbirds gorging on juicy berries, their yellow beaks stained purple.
But it wasn’t a family of blackbirds in her garden. It was two small boys and one large black cat.
Smudge was sniffing around one of her towers and studiously ignoring Daniel, who was stroking his back, emitting the occasional shriek of delight at the softness of his black fur. Charles, the older child, was busy inserting himself inside a blackberry bush. Already all she could see were the backs of his legs; the rest of him had been swallowed by the bush. He’d probably knock off some of the flowers, thought Amy, and they would never become berries. Plus he’d rip his clothes, not to mention the scratches that would befall his skin.
The gaps in her fence had a lot to answer for.
Amy leaned over her sink to tap the window and warn them off, but they didn’t notice. She called out, but again, to no avail. Smudge must have heard, because he suddenly leapt to the top of one of the green towers of ivy-covered pots, which wobbled precariously. Perhaps she should move the pots inside, she thought, and looked around for where they might live. But of course, towers of mugs lined every surface of the kitchen, and boxes and a couple of stray clocks took up most of the floor space. It had been a while since she’d seen the floor properly, let alone cleaned it.
Really, her house was too small, she decided. The pots, beautiful as they were, would have to take their chances outside.
Charles had been swallowed completely by the bush, and it shook as if possessed. Daniel was dangerously near a large patch of nettles, his eyes fixed on Smudge. Amy wished for a large wall between the two gardens, rather than the rickety fence that clearly couldn’t contain the curiosity of the children. This had gone far enough. Amy went to open the kitchen door and go out to shoo them away.
It was easier thought than done. Her kitchen was small, and since she rarely went into the garden, she’d started to use the area in front of the door for extra storage. She heaved down a box, glancing briefly inside. It contained a rather beautiful tea set: cups and saucers with elegant gold rims and roses and strawberries meandering across the fine bone china. She’d found it in a charity shop, complete but for the milk jug, which she’d trawled the internet for in the vain hope of finding a match. She really must use the set, she thought to herself. Maybe to drink Earl Grey tea, then she wouldn’t need milk. She had a box of the stuff somewhere. She glanced around her kitchen. Perhaps she’d just buy a new packet.
A crash.
So loud that Amy jumped and the little teacup she was holding flew into the air, and it was pure luck that she caught it again. She rushed to the window.
Smudge dashed across the garden, his tail fluffed up short and fat in fear as he fled up a tree.
Charles staggered out of the blackberry bush. Even through the grimy kitchen window, Amy could see that he was scratched by the thorns.
She looked at a heap on the ground, not recognising it. Then she realised.
Her pots. A tower of pots had fallen.
Amy wondered why Charles was so panicked. He was screaming as he pawed at her garden. It wasn’t as though the pots were his. They were hers.
Amy felt sick with guilt and worry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out to check on the pots, couldn’t even remember what each one looked like. She didn’t deserve them; they had a right to a better life. She’d been imagining them to be happy under the ivy, but what if they’d felt starved of attention, of sunlight, of the plants that should have made them complete?
Neglect.
That was what it was. And now, perhaps, she would lose them.
Amy put the teacup back in the box and moved it to one side. There were more boxes underneath, and she hurried to slide them across the floor to give her access to the door. Charles was frantic now, tugging at her pots. He’d do more harm than good: she needed to get out there and stop him.
He was shouting. Amy paused and listened. Then she realised why he was so upset. Who was missing from the scene in her garden.
His brother.
The tower had fallen on Daniel.
February 1999
‘I can’t believe I missed out on meeting a handsome older guy in a band because I was busy snogging bloody Dean Chapman!’ It was Saturday afternoon and Chantel and Amy were both lounging around in Chantel’s bedroom. Her mother’s flat was much smaller than Amy’s parents’ home, but the girls preferred to hang out there. It felt warmer, somehow. Amy’s house always felt empty. Perhaps it was because her parents were always working at the hospital.
Cursing Dean Chapman had become a familiar refrain from Chantel over the past four months as Amy and Tim had grown closer.
‘I think you like Dean really,’ said Amy, looking up from a magazine she’d been flicking through on the bed. ‘If you don’t, how come you always end up kissing him?’
‘Because he’s always got weed,’ said Chantel. ‘And I always have booze.’ She paused. ‘And he is a good kisser,’ she admitted.
‘Chemistry,’ said Amy. ‘That’s what you’ve got. I reckon you’ll end up getting married and having loads of little Chapmans.’
Chantel shuddered. ‘
Talking of little ones, have you guys still not done the deed?’
‘Not yet,’ admitted Amy.
Chantel had been lying back, but sat up at this news, her eyes bright. ‘Do you think he’s gay?’ she asked.
‘Do I think my boyfriend is gay?’ repeated Amy, incredulous. ‘Of course not.’
‘Think about it,’ continued Chantel, warming to her theme. ‘He’s nineteen, he hasn’t slept with you, and you’re tall and elegant and flipping gorgeous. And he uses coconut oil conditioner. I don’t want to stereotype, but . . . ’
‘I wish I hadn’t told you that,’ said Amy. She could smell coconuts even now, and could almost feel his silky hair between her fingers. It reminded her of stroking Samuel, the rabbit her grandmother had bought for her birthday one year. That was until her mother had forgotten to close the cage, of course, and she’d found him squashed next to a zebra crossing on the high street.
‘We’re taking our time,’ said Amy. ‘I want it to be special.’
‘Sunsets and rose petals?’ asked Chantel, miming throwing up. ‘He does know you’re not a virgin?’
‘We haven’t discussed it,’ said Amy. ‘And what happened doesn’t really count.’ Her mind went back to a brief drunken encounter on top of a pile of coats with Eric Townsend at a party he’d thrown while his parents were in Tenerife. She’d been sick on the coats shortly after and had crept out while he was snoring contentedly.
A knock on the bedroom door announced Toyah, Chantel’s mum. ‘I’m popping to the shops,’ she said, poking her head round the door. ‘You girls want anything? I could pick up some of those fishcakes you like Amy, if you fancy staying for dinner?’
‘Tim’s cooking for me tonight,’ said Amy, a little proudly. ‘Spaghetti bolognese.’
‘A handsome musician who can cook,’ said Toyah. ‘I don’t suppose he has a single brother?’
‘Mum!’ exclaimed Chantel.
‘I was thinking of you,’ laughed Toyah. ‘Although a toy boy does sound rather appealing . . . ’
‘He’s an only child,’ said Amy. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’
‘Probably for the best,’ said Toyah. ‘We can’t have the Smith girls fighting over a man.’ She smiled. ‘Right, I’ll be off. I’ll stock up on pineapple juice for you, Amy. I’m sure you’ll be back tomorrow to give us all the details.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Amy, as Toyah disappeared.
‘So Tim’s cooking you dinner tonight?’ prompted Chantel. ‘Maybe tonight’s the night.’
Amy looked down. She’d been thinking the same thing.
‘Oh, I bet it is,’ said Chantel, reading her face. ‘What are you going to wear?’
‘That blue velvet dress,’ said Amy. ‘With my wedged boots.’
‘Good call,’ said Chantel. ‘You look hot in that.’ She paused. ‘And underwear?’
‘Of course,’ said Amy, a little shocked.
Chantel laughed. ‘No, I mean which underwear? You can’t have those white cotton knickers with the flowers on that you insist on wearing, with that awful beige bra. You need something sexy.’ She went over to her chest of drawers and began rummaging through it. ‘Ah ha,’ she said, triumphant. ‘This is what you want.’ She pulled out a lacy black bra and a matching thong.
‘I couldn’t . . . ’
‘I’ve never worn them,’ said Chantel. ‘Never had the chance. Bloody Dean Chapman, cramping my style. And it’s not like I’d waste them on him.’
‘But then he’d know . . . he has seen my bra already,’ she admitted. She imagined her embarrassment if things did go further and he saw that underwear. He’d think she’d been planning it. For some reason, even though she wanted to, the idea of him thinking she’d dressed up specially made her feel mortified.
‘He’s seen that monstrosity and he’s still interested?’ said Chantel. ‘Maybe he isn’t gay after all. In which case . . . ’ Chantel opened another drawer and began to rummage. ‘Here we are,’ she said, then frowned at the box. ‘Only a month till they go out of date. How tragic is that. The Chantel of a year ago was clearly over-optimistic.’ She chucked the condom box to Amy, who immediately buried it deep in her handbag, colouring at even the idea of such things being in her possession.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Chantel came over and gave her a hug. ‘I know I tease you,’ she said. ‘But it’s just jealousy. He’s a great guy and I’m really happy for you. You’re brilliant and he’s very lucky.’
Amy hugged her back. ‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘You’re the best.’
‘And I want to know every detail,’ continued Chantel. ‘No fobbing me off this time with excuses about being too drunk to remember.’
‘I won’t be drunk,’ said Amy. But Chantel had given her an idea. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said, kissing her friend on the cheek. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Like you need it.’
Amy stood in the wine aisle at the small supermarket, wishing she’d saved the bottle from the night they met. Now all she could remember was that it had been red wine with a screw top and that the bottle had a lovely soft green glow to it from the moonlight. She could hardly tell the bored-looking assistant stacking shelves that and expect any help.
It would be more romantic if she could remember what it was, but the thought would still count if she bought any nice bottle of wine. Her eyes scanned the shelves, but she knew nothing about wine and the only criteria she had to go on was price. She had a ten-pound note in her purse from when she’d babysat Teresa next door. That would buy something good. Something special.
She selected a bottle with a pretty line drawing of the Tuscan hills that was reduced from £11 to £6.99. It had a cork, so she picked up a corkscrew too, just in case. He’d laugh at that; it was even better than a screw top. She’d not been to Tim’s flat before, but his flatmates had gone away on a lads’ trip to watch the football in Manchester and he’d invited her. He’d cook, he said. She’d rarely been cooked for before by anyone other than her grandmother or Toyah. And she didn’t count the hurried meals that her parents provided between shifts, or the microwaved cheese and ketchup on toast that was Chantel’s speciality.
She took the bottle to the till, feeling very grown-up. She was going to have dinner at her boyfriend’s house and she was bringing wine. Boyfriend. Even that sounded sophisticated. She had been too shy to use that word herself, but then he’d introduced her as his girlfriend to his band mates and she’d glowed merrily. After that she used the word as often as she could, feeling a little echo of that glow every time.
The woman at the till pursed her lips at the bottle. She was about the age of Amy’s mum but wore large gold hoop earrings that Amy could never imagine her own mother wearing. ‘ID?’ she asked.
‘What?’ said Amy. ‘I’m eighteen.’ It was true. She’d celebrated her birthday last month.
‘Course you are, love. You need to prove it.’
Amy rummaged in her handbag. Her student card for art college hadn’t arrived yet. She didn’t have a driving licence. Since she’d turned eighteen she’d started taking her passport with her when she went to pubs, but she wasn’t going to a pub tonight and it hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’m going for dinner at my boyfriend’s house and I want to bring a bottle of wine.’ She hoped that made her sound older.
‘Nope,’ said the woman. ‘It’s policy.’
An older woman from the next till looked up at Amy. ‘Get some chocolates, love,’ she said. ‘Or how about a nice bunch of flowers? Not just for girls, you know.’
Amy turned away, taking her wine back to the shelf. She put it with the other bottles, turning it so the labels lined up. Her ten-pound note was scrunched in her hand. Tim didn’t really like chocolates, though she felt like some right now. She wandered over to the flowers, but the limp bunches of freesias and carnations didn’t feel right. A few house plants sat next to the flowers, an out-of-season selection of Christmas cactuses and a few small African violets.
Then she saw it. A gorgeous fern, large and luscious, its leaves unfurling like tentacles. It looked as though it belonged on the rainforest floor, not in a small supermarket. She bent down to check she could afford it, and saw that it came in a glazed pot the colour of pumpkins.
It was perfect.
Amy found her embarrassment dissipate as excitement mounted. She picked it up, feeling like a jungle explorer as she took it to the till, choosing the older lady this time who’d helped. ‘He’ll be pleased with that, love,’ the woman said. ‘Pretty pot, too.’
Amy nodded. ‘He’ll love it,’ she said.
Amy lay in bed. Tim’s arm was draped over her and his eyes were closed. She listened to him breathing. The fern was on the table next to his bed and the outline of his head was silhouetted against the orange pot like a cityscape in a sunset. The leaves were so close to his head that she saw them softly move as he breathed in and out.
She heard the hum of her phone vibrating with a text message, and carefully rolled over and leaned out of the bed to grab it from the floor. Tim’s arm remained on her body, soft and warm.
She nuzzled her head closer to Tim’s coconut-scented hair as she read the message. It was from Chantel. Of course it was. Amy smiled. She typed a quick reply before turning off her phone.
He’s definitely not gay ;)
Beethoven’s Fifth rang out again and again, accompanied by fierce banging on Amy’s front door. It wasn’t helping. ‘Let us in,’ shouted Nina, for the umpteenth time. ‘What’s happened out there?’
‘Climb over the fence,’ snapped Amy.
‘Open the front door,’ replied Nina.
‘The fence will be quicker,’ shouted Amy. She finally pushed the last box out of the way. She breathed a sigh of relief that the key was in the lock, or else she’d never have found it. She turned it and pushed her back door open, running into the garden. She ignored the nettles which stung her legs with their acidic hairs as she went to join Charles searching through the pots. He was attempting to heave over an upside-down pot that was bigger than he was. Amy forced herself to ignore the other pots, looking at her mournfully from the ground, their injuries unassessed. They would have to wait. Instead she gripped the pot and pulled with him. They turned it over.
