by Hannah Doyle
Zach doffs his imaginary cap and sets to work.
I feel like I’m in a Jackie Collins novel only on a slightly lower budget. I’m sat in a deckchair with a lemonade watching my new groundsman Zach get his hands dirty. There may be no pool and I’m not wearing any pearls or a wide-brimmed hat, but still, I like it.
Zach’s not the most proficient gardener. He keeps getting the names of all the tools mixed up and I’m pretty sure he just decapitated a succulent I’ve been growing in my potting shed. But he is happy to muck in and I’m finding his willingness to try something new really endearing. A playlist of all my favourite feel-good tunes floats out from the speakers in my shed and we’ve been happily chatting about this and that. I’m humming along to a song that takes me right back to school days when I realise that Zach is humming too. I smile, realising how relaxed I am here with him. It’s a relief to feel like this part of me is okay, too. I can be my true self with Zach, not just the woman who likes noisy nights out but also the woman who’s happy spending a chilled weekend down at my allotment.
‘What got you into gardening?’ Zach asks when the song comes to an end. I take a deep breath and decide that I’m ready to open up to him more, and talk about my past for the first time in a long while.
‘My mum died when I was fifteen,’ I say. Instantly he reaches out to hold my hand, his finger stroking my thumb as I talk. ‘She was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and within weeks I was sat by the hospital bed we’d had moved into our house, saying goodbye to her as she lay there, dosed up on morphine. One minute she was there, the next she was gone.’ Zach squeezes my hand and as I lean forward in my seat he reaches across to place a tender kiss on my forehead.
‘I remember so clearly feeling like a stranger in my own body at the time. How could this be happening? It didn’t feel real. We were dragged along on a wave of funeral plans and sorry-for-your-loss cards and it was only later, when the flowers stopped coming, when the cards stopped landing on the doormat, that it truly sank in. She’d gone. Just a few weeks which would change my life irrevocably.’
My eyes sting with tears and I blink them back. I don’t think there will ever be a time I can tell this story without being that 15-year-old girl who lost her mum at the age when you need her the most, and it still feeling like it happened yesterday.
‘Alice, that’s awful,’ Zach says. He’s kneeling right next to me now, and pulls me towards him where he holds me tight. I nestle into him, feeling soothed by the sound of his heart beating right by my ear. There’s something calming about his presence and I feel reassured by the fact that he’s happy just to listen.
‘Dad and I soldiered on as best we could but we both struggled. I went through a stage of being incredibly angry with everyone and everything. Dad would sit there quietly while I raged, letting me vent, soothing me when I had nothing left to give. He was as solid as a rock and worked so hard to look after me, always putting me first. But I knew that his heart was broken beyond repair. I’d find him quietly crying to himself, long after he thought I’d gone to bed.’
‘As a kid, there’s nothing more difficult than knowing that a parent is upset but feeling like there’s nothing you can do to help,’ Zach says, sitting down on a patch of grass and encouraging me to do the same. ‘I’d overhear my mum and dad having bitter arguments after Raff and I had gone to bed. They seemed to save it up until we were out of the way but we could still hear them. They’d rage at each other and I remember lying in my bedroom, feeling so helpless. I think both Raff and I blamed ourselves for what happened to them for a long while.’
‘Oh Zach, that’s so sad. Their divorce wasn’t your fault. You were just a child!’
‘I know that now,’ he says softly. ‘Things are confusing when you’re little though. And for you to lose your mum at fifteen … Ah. Alice. I can’t imagine how tough that must have been for you.’
‘It was tough,’ I admit. ‘One day, when Dad and I decided we felt brave enough, we’d started going through some of Mum’s things. Touching the clothes she’d once cherished felt like breaking a spell. We’d made piles to keep and piles to take to a charity shop and after that I decided that we deserved some fish and chips from the van that used to drive through our village. When I got back, Dad was still up in their bedroom, holding onto one of her favourite dresses. I remember clearly that his knuckles were white, like he couldn’t ever let go of it. I knew then that Dad would never be the same again. He’d lost the love of his life.’ My voice catches in my throat.
‘And you’d lost your mum,’ Zach whispers.
‘From that point, I became fiercely protective of my dad. Still am! I didn’t want anything to ever hurt him like that again. So I focused a lot of my energies on that, giving him the space when he needed it.’
‘It must have been so hard to be at home without her, especially at first,’ Zach says sympathetically.
I nod. ‘That’s why I ended up round at Dylan’s house, eating all his mum’s food a couple of times a week. Things got easier for us, in a way that almost made it worst. In many ways you don’t want something like that to get easier. But even with time, everything at home reminded us of Mum. The dip on her side of the sofa where she’d sit in the evenings. Her favourite coffee cup. The photos of us dotted all around. When I went to uni, Dad decided to sell our house. He bought a place not too far away, but far enough to feel like a fresh start. We talk all the time and he likes to send me poorly taken photos of his dinner, or a wonky selfie of him and his mates at the pub,’ I grin.
Zach and I stand up together now, his arms still circled around my waist. ‘No doubt your dad is incredibly proud of you.’
‘He definitely tells me that a lot,’ I smile. ‘Remember when I told you that Dad always used to bring flowers home for Mum every week? It was such a simple, honest gesture of love and that’s where my own love of flowers came from. I mean, I was nearly sick of the sight of them after the funeral. The house was stuffed with white lilies for weeks afterwards. But when the dust settled, gardening became my way of reconnecting with Mum, in a way. She had huge success with a rosemary plant in the garden one year and after that there was always a little pot of something she’d be tending to, so after Mum died gardening became my way of … I don’t know, kind of carrying that love on? Keeping a little piece of her with me, I guess.’
‘The fact that you’re doing all of this to be close to your mum is really beautiful, Alice. She would be so proud of you.’
‘Thanks. I hope so. When I was at uni I read about how much gardening can help you to cope with stress, or sadness, so I joined a community garden project. The minute I started raking through the soil, I got it. We transformed vacant sites into flower gardens and veg plots and there was something so positive about seeing things grow like that. I came back to Sheffield after uni and once the flower shop was up and running, I realised how much I missed it, so I decided to get an allotment of my own. This probably sounds really snowflakey of me but coming here is one of my self-care rituals. It means I can be the life and soul of the party and have some space for downtime too.’
‘Not snowflakey at all,’ Zach smiles. ‘I’m a big fan of taking time for yourself when you need it. For me it’s getting out into the Peaks for a big climb or heading out for a run. You can’t beat that freedom and the sense of escaping from your everyday stuff. Clears the head, you know?’
‘Absolutely,’ I nod, relieved he’s not been scared off by my sudden outpouring of emotions. ‘God, sorry Zach. I’ve just realised how much I’ve talked. I bet you never expected a simple question about what got me into gardening would end up in a massive explanation about all the emotional baggage behind it!’
He squeezes my shoulder in response. ‘Please don’t apologise. I’m genuinely touched that you’ve felt comfortable enough to open up to me about this. I can’t begin to understand how it must feel to lose a parent, but I can relate to your need to give yourself some headspace. You know, Raff and I spe
nt a lot of weekends being shipped from one parent to the other and it was hard. I felt like I never quite had a place where I properly belonged. Other kids at school would talk about their family Sundays, where one parent would take them to football and the other would cook a Sunday lunch. We never really knew where we’d be from one weekend to the next so I just didn’t have that sense of … grounding, I guess? I’d cry every time I had to say goodbye to Dad after a weekend, and the same with Mum.’
He grabs another deckchair and unfolds it so that we can sit down together. ‘But you know, divorce happens a lot,’ he shrugs. ‘And we’re all safe and well, so I really have nothing to complain about.’
‘It’s bound to have had an impact on you, Zach.’
‘I think so. I shouldered a lot of the blame for it when I was younger and I’m really quick to judge myself on stuff now, still. I can sometimes get stuck in my own head and that’s when the trainers come out and I head out for a run. A good dose of fresh air makes everything feel better.’
‘Well, I can relate to all but the running bit of what you just said,’ I laugh, only now realising that I’ve been twisting Mum’s wedding ring so much that the skin’s gone red around my middle finger.
Zach notices and asks if it was Mum’s and I nod.
‘It’s nice you can wear something that always reminds you of her. And that now you have this place too where you can feel close to her.’
‘Don’t tell Mum, but my rosemary plant is actually doing even better than hers now.’
Zach mimes zipping his lips and I laugh. This feels so good.
‘Honestly, I never tell anyone all of this stuff,’ I say after a pause, feeling suddenly shy and a little exposed. ‘You know you’re the first person apart from Dad who I’ve ever invited here?’
‘Well I’m honoured to be only your second guest here. And I’m really glad you felt comfortable enough to share this with me,’ Zach says, leaning in to kiss me.
Our moment is interrupted by ViVi popping her head over to say hello. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the prospect of catching a glimpse of my new guest. Zach tells her that the strawberries were the best he’d ever tasted, his usual understated charm at play, and I watch her whole face light up with the compliment. He seems to have that effect on people.
We all chat for a bit, pottering around our respective allotments, before ViVi announces that she’s heading home for the day and beckons me over to her, handing me a crop of runner beans wrapped in newspaper. Zach’s turned his attention back to watering the newly planted pumpkin seeds and she mouths ‘Phwoar!’ to me.
‘I know, right?’ I giggle. What Zach lacks in gardening skills he more than makes up for in appearance. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his T-shirt which now sit tightly over his strong arms and frankly, I am very much here for it.
‘I think we deserve a break,’ I say later. Zach straightens up, wiping his forehead with his left arm.
‘We?’ He scoffs. ‘Pretty sure you’ve spent the afternoon sunbathing!’
‘I prefer to use the term “art directing”,’ I grin. ‘Lemonade?’
‘Because today couldn’t get any more British?’
‘Hmm, it is all quite quintessential isn’t it?’ Gardening, strawberries, lemonade. I’m still clutching a bunch of runner beans. ‘I might as well stick on some cottagecore while we run through the Peaks, Jane Austen-style.’
‘Cottagecore?’ Zach’s eyebrows shoot up in confusion.
‘It’s a fashion thing. Long, blowy dresses with cute paisley prints. Perhaps I should have included something Italian to make you feel less like you’ve stepped into Last of the Summer Wine.’
‘I don’t ever like to be too far away from an espresso or a gelato,’ he teases.
‘I can hear the Italian coming through,’ I say, melting like a gelato at his delicious pronunciation.
‘That’s my Nonna for you. Once Dad moved back to Italy Raff and I would spend our summer holidays over there with him and our grandma … I remember counting down the days until summer term ended. We’re still really close with her now and she loves a video call. Last time I spoke to her she’d found my childhood teddy in a cupboard she was going through – hang on, that’s embarrassing. I definitely didn’t have a teddy growing up.’
I laugh at that. ‘Finally! I’ve been hoping for some balance ever since that picture of me as a kid emerged.’
‘Darth?’
‘Shut up.’
We’re back on the deckchairs sipping lemonade and I snuggle into Zach, his familiar scent mixed with strawberries. A day in the garden has cleared my mind of all its usual hang-ups and I feel so peaceful, listening to his heart beat.
The sun’s dipping behind one of Sheffield’s many hills and the fairy lights I strung up along my potting shed start to glow.
‘All the colours of the rainbow,’ Zach smiles. ‘It sounds like you got your love of colour from your mum.’
I’d told him earlier how Mum was a magpie for anything bright. She’d worked as an interior designer and was never happier than when she was pottering though vintage shops, hunting for treasures. As a result, our house was a riot of colour and an absolute mish-mash of styles. A squishy pink sofa from the sixties sat next to a blue velvet armchair in the living room, we ate our meals off bird of paradise plates, my muddy wellies stood next to a clementine-coloured coat stand in the hallway. ‘The walls must stay white!’ she’d insisted. ‘Let the furniture do the talking.’ I think that’s one of the reasons we’d been able to sell the house, after she died. It would be years before we’d dig her furniture out again, but that’s where her joyfulness lived.
‘I finally unwrapped the bird of paradise plates,’ I say to Zach now. ‘Not that long ago, actually. They’re in my house and I think of her every time I eat. I imagine her approval if I’m tucking into something nutritious, or the maternal tut if I’m eating instant noodles for dinner. Meanwhile Dad now spends most of his evenings stretched out on the pink sofa.’
‘It sounds like you’re in a good place, Alice.’
I pause at that, realising that I am. Zach’s legs are stretched out beyond his deckchair and I’ve twisted to rest mine on his. Paper cups filled with lukewarm lemonade gently fizz at our sides. His arm is still around the back of my neck. Instinctively we rest our heads together, our hands linking as we sit side by side. I let my eyes close and enjoy the feeling of real happiness washing over me as we kiss.
Happy Hour
Zach
Alice is leaning against the kitchen counter in her tropical palm print pyjamas. The coffee machine is whirring into life and the smell of cinnamon buns wafts from the oven. I pause in the doorway, not wanting to disturb her while I take in every moment of this scene. It’s easy, happy, relaxed … so many of the things I’ve yearned for over the years. I was really chuffed that Alice opened up to me yesterday at the allotment. It can’t have been easy to talk about her mum the way she did. Knowing her background and understanding how much she’d had to overcome at such a young age has helped me to fit together some of the missing pieces from her jigsaw puzzle. Now I understand why she’s kept love at arm’s length. Because she’s afraid. She’s seen how easily love can tear you apart and she’s protecting herself. Those barriers of hers are there for a good reason.
I remain a firm believer in love, though. And finding out that Alice has such a big heart makes me even more hopeful that there will be room for me in it.
She spots me standing in the doorway and pads over, a sleepy smile spreading across her face.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning. Your bed felt very empty without you in it so I came down to investigate.’
‘I am pleased about that,’ she says. ‘It’s not often I have a man wearing nothing but his boxers in my kitchen.’
‘And I am pleased about that,’ I laugh.
‘Zach, prepare yourself. This morning I am going to make you the best coffee of your life. It’s a big statement
, I know, given that you are Italian and used to work in a coffee shop. But I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials for the past twenty minutes so I think that means I’m now a trained barista in my own right?’
Amused, she leads me over to her kitchen table, motioning for me to sit down while she weighs out the ground beans.
‘I’m already impressed,’ I say as she tamps them down.
‘Nat brought all this coffee kit with her when she moved in,’ she explains. ‘Pretty sure she nicked it from an event she’d organised. Wait, no. Natalie is very professional and never steals things from clients,’ she spins round, pulling a face.
I pretend to look shocked. ‘Should I check around your house for any of my artwork?’
Alice grins. ‘Nah, I’m into bold colours and more than one, preferably. Lots of them, splashed onto a canvas.’
‘Pollock?’
‘There’s no need to be rude.’
‘No, I meant Jackson Pollock. The artist. I thought you did art for A level?’
‘I did! Renaissance art was my thing, though. And photography. Do I need to hunt out my polo neck again while you give me a modern art lesson?’
‘Always teasing,’ I sigh. ‘How about you pipe down and bring that coffee over, woman.’
‘And that, m’lord, was the last thing renowned artist Zach Moretti said before he disappeared and was never seen again.’ She’s waving the coffee tamper at me and I hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Okay, okay, I take it back,’ I laugh as Alice hands me the coffee. ‘Please don’t ever pipe down. I mean it. I love to hear you talk. It’s like plugging into my own personal uplifting podcast.’
I take a sip. ‘Well?’ She asks.
Hmm. ‘It’s good,’ I offer.
‘The best coffee of your life?’ She prompts, hand playfully on her hip.
‘Um … Yes?’
She laughs. ‘You are very bad at lying, which I suppose is a good quality. Listen, I’d love to laze around with you but I’ve got a meeting with a potential new client this afternoon. Mondays are normally pretty quiet in the shop, and Eve’s opening up this morning, but I’d still like to get in and do some prep work before the meeting. It’s for a wedding and I always like to be prepared. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like?’
