The Insistent Garden

by Rosie Chard

  “Is it empty?”

  His eyes met mine. “Yes, it was empty.”

  “Did you have a nice day at work?”

  He sniffed. “The usual.”

  I breathed. “Are we working outside today?” The fridge rattled, and then belched.

  “No, inside. I’ve just picked up some more wallpaper.”

  “But, we only just. . . the paste isn’t dry —”

  He took the egg out of his pocket and held it up to the light. “We need another layer.”

  45

  WEAR LONG RUBBER GLOVES

  DO NOT GET IN EYES OR ON SKIN

  IF BREATHED IN MOVE INTO FRESH AIR

  “Edith. Edith! Eeedith!”

  Everything I did was interrupted now. Vivian disturbed even the simplest of tasks and a trail of uncompleted chores gathered in my wake: half polished shoes, unbuttered toast, a laundry basket of damp clothes breeding creases.

  I put down my cloth, turned off the tap and walked to the top of the stairs. “I’m just coming.”

  “Hurry up. We’re going out.” Vivian’s coat was on.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, descending the stairs.

  “My house.”

  Vivian’s house. I had never been to Vivian’s house, not once. I had imagined it often enough, its red tablecloths, its red-papered walls, its fridge, loaded with slices of beef pooling watery blood into the Tupperware, but I had never in all my years as a niece stepped across its real threshold. Transfer from the imagined to the actual scared me. I took comfort in my imagined world. I chose its carpets; I picked out its curtains, but now I had to go there with Vivian, never to fantasize about red velour armchairs ever again.

  The walk was surprisingly short, no more than ten streets. I was musing over the hundreds of taxis Vivian had hailed in order to reach my house over the years when we stopped in front of a squat, semidetached house. A small-scale relative of my own, it was built of the same orange brick, had the same pitch on its roof, yet thin strips of concrete had replaced the stone above the doorway and aluminium windows replaced the timber frames found in every other house in the street. It resembled a face whose eyelashes had fallen out.

  A rancid smell, reminding me of over-ripe Stilton, drifted from Vivian’s handbag as she rummaged for her keys; I glimpsed a sandwich sweating inside a bag just before she snapped it shut. She stepped into the house. Bracing myself for redness, I followed.

  A sofa wrapped in plastic was the first thing I saw. A wrapped shade of red, it sat in the centre of the room like a domesticated altar. I hesitated, unable to make a connection between my aunt’s stinginess and a piece of brand new furniture. Looking round I saw more: a pair of armchairs dressed in plastic dresses flanked the sofa, a lamp wore a plastic skirt and a small television wrapped in a blanket waited by the door. As I tried to absorb the strangeness of the scene, a strip of plastic carpet led my eye across the room in a prescribed diagonal. It passed the foot of the sofa, ran towards a large cupboard on the opposite wall, then doubled back towards me. I inched my left foot, which had strayed onto the carpet, back within the confines of the strip and looked at my aunt. She was watching me.

  “What are you waiting for? Go and get the luggage.”

  I tried out a pause. “Yes,” I replied.

  Plastic led the way. Folding itself over the stairs, it guided me up to the first floor and drew me along the landing, halting only at the door to the master bedroom. Here, three large nails hammered into the treadplate ended its life. I edged open the door, unable to imagine what lay within.

  A bed lay within. Stripped of blankets, it was still trimmed with a reassuringly red piece of piping along the edge of the valance. A family of suitcases was stacked on the floor beside it and I began to count, pausing only when I reached the fifth child, more a vanity than a case. Before picking them up, I looked round the room. Empty shelves gave no clue to a life lived; no tissue box fluffed up into random shapes, no jewellery curling up on the bedside table, no shoes beneath the bed. Just the emptiness of a vacated hotel room.

  Then I realized. Vivian was moving out.

  Suitcases lined with bricks filled my mind as I dragged Vivian’s luggage down the stairs. Handles strained on stretched threads, my hand strained on a stretched wrist and by the time the penultimate case was sitting on the hall floor my pulse was thudding in my ears.

  “I’ll get the last one in a moment,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

  Vivian turned round, her lips shaped into a scold, and then she relaxed. “You can sit on the sofa for a moment if you like.”

  I sat down, a hint of a pattern showing through the plastic as it was compressed beneath my legs. “Why do you have all this plastic on the furniture?” I asked.

  Vivian stared. “What a ridiculous question. It stops it wearing out, of course.”

  I shifted position, wincing as the plastic detached from my skin. “Are you moving in with us?”

  “Edith, you can be so dense sometimes. Of course I am. Your father can’t possibly manage without me.”

  My thoughts became square then. They had walls. “How will we get all your luggage back to the house?” I asked.

  “For goodness sake, by taxi. The phone is in the hall, get them to come straightaway.”

  A sheet of foolscap was pinned to the wall beside the telephone and only here did I find clues to Vivian’s life in the house: a spot of grease, chocolate crumbs, and a cluster of tiny hairs stuck to the paper. I scanned the sheet, trying to decipher the list of deleted phone numbers. ‘Duffy’s Taxis’ was scratched over with a red pen, ‘Smith’s Cabs’ was barely visible beneath angry black lines and ‘Billingsford Cars’ had a hole punched right through the C. Only one name remained untouched, ‘Graham’s Taxi Service.’ I dialed.

  ‘Graham’ took a long time coming. Vivian had effervesced into a froth of slander by the time a man with greasy black hair slouched up the path.

  “Stoker?” he said as I opened the door.

  “You’re late,” barked Vivian, nudging me aside.

  “Been a rush on.” He bent down to pick up the suitcases.

  “I’ll help you,” I said.

  “It’s alright, love,” he replied.

  “She’ll help you,” said Vivian. “And I’ll need you to come back later to pick up the final load.”

  Vivian’s elbows poked my ribs as we squeezed into the back seat of the taxi. The final suitcases, regardless of the packing skills of the driver, would not fit into the boot and he clicked a seatbelt round the waist of the largest one before forcing the vanity bag between Vivian’s knee and the door. A smell of lipstick and suitcase dust filled the car’s interior and I was just beginning to relax into my portion of seat when Vivian leaned forward and shouted at the driver. “I want to make a stop,” she said.

  The cabbie glanced in the mirror. “Where?”

  “The High Street. Palmer’s Pet Shop.”

  “It’ll cost you.” He tapped the meter. “Waiting time.”

  “We won’t be long.”

  We. Anxiety tweaked my stomach.

  Palmer’s Pet Shop welcomed us with a waft of straw-scented air and the hum of small-scale rummaging. Flurries of activity dragged my eye in several directions: an ear scratched at speed, sawdust tossed, and water sucked from upside-down bottles clamped to the sides of cages. Vivian was standing over a bowl of puppies when I caught up with her. The mere act of being awake seemed to be wearing them out and they clambered over each other with the weariness of exhausted sloths. I had never had a pet, never held an animal in my arms, and the thought of a puppy laying a tired paw on my pillow sent a shot of anticipation through me.

  “It’s got to be house trained,” Vivian was saying. “And tough.”

  I watched the pile of puppies that were now practicing how to yawn. They flattened their foreheads as I stroked them in turn and by the time I had caressed every silken coat I realized Vivian had bought a dog.

  “I’ll take it now.
” She pressed a wad of folded banknotes into the shop assistant’s hand. “It’ll be called Grinder.”

  Grinder had never been in a pile. It was clear he had never laid a tired paw on a pillow, so black were his eyes, so condescending his gaze.

  “Is that dog coming to the house with us?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, “he’s the pet.” A lead was thrust into my hand. “Let’s go.”

  I had seen dogs in the street, of course. They trotted behind their owners, they ran for sticks, but I had never held a lead before, never tried to fall in step with a live animal.

  “It won’t come,” I said.

  “What do you mean it won’t come?” replied Vivian. “Make it come.”

  I tugged at the lead.

  “For goodness sake. Give it to me.”

  Hypnotized by the red skirt that brushed past its nose, the dog went limp then padded behind Vivian, without a backward glance at its former companions, and out of the shop.

  “Oi, you can’t bring that thing in here,” yelled the cabbie as we approached the car.

  “Why not?” Vivian demanded.

  “There’s no room.”

  She looked inside the car. “You’re right, I’ll go with you and she can walk the dog home.”

  The lead was back in my hand. Sweaty.

  “But, I can’t. . .”

  “Don’t be long, I’ll need you to bring the cases up when you get back,” she said. She climbed into the taxi and slammed the door.

  Damp breath trawled the side of my leg, rhythmic and moist. I looked down, convinced the dog was getting ready to bite. “Shall we go home?” I said.

  The dog stiffened.

  “Let’s go, please.”

  He turned his head, rippling his eyebrows at something in the distance. I followed his gaze in the direction of a bored rabbit sitting in the pet shop window. I tugged at the lead again but the dog threw me a contemptuous glance, stiffened further and then lay down on the pavement.

  I was in a state of exhausted despair when my father strode up the road towards me half an hour later. Eyebrows quivered into spikes somewhere beside my knees and by the time he was within shouting distance the dog was on its feet, shoulders straight, tail up, like a soldier on his first day at the barracks.

  “Get that dog here!” he yelled.

  The lead leapt from my hand; mud flicked up from the grass verge.

  “I’m sorry. He wouldn’t come,” I said, chasing behind. My father didn’t reply. He ran his hand over the dog’s head then turned and, taking one step for every three of mine, strode down the hill towards home. By the time we reached the house I was panting.

  “Get the dog some water,” my father said.

  I felt disgust. Saliva streaked the floor as the dog’s tongue lapped across the bowl, wetting its paws, wetting the tips of my shoes. I gazed at the top of his head. This huge, moist creature was now part of my life. And a red glaze had settled on my house. Permanently.

  46

  My nineteenth birthday fell on a wet Wednesday in April. The event went unnoticed. In the bedroom, in the kitchen, in the living room, the day began like any other. Only the doormat showed any sign of celebration. I spotted the letter from the top of the stairs. A shaky font — learned in a long-lost classroom — was leaking across the front of the envelope. I picked it up, slipped it into my pocket and returned to my room.

  Archie’s back was towards me when I peered through his kitchen window later. Head bent, backbone embossed on his shirt, he was working on something that lay between his elbows. I tapped on the glass.

  “Edie, you caught me at it.” A sickly smell wafted out as he opened the door and ushered me inside.

  “At what?”

  “Icing someone’s cake. Come and see.”

  A cloth of icing sugar lay on the table, smeared with fingerprints and dotted with marzipan sausages. At the centre of the mayhem I saw a cake. Collapsed, wrinkled, badly repaired. Beautiful.

  “Happy Birthday,” he announced, a floured finger grazing his cheek.

  I blinked. A cake, made with old margarine and plastered with lumpy brown icing, was the loveliest present I could imagine.

  “Thank you, Archie, thank you.”

  “Like my card?”

  “I love it.”

  I had trouble cutting the cake. The edges sloughed off where uncooked met burned and my hands seemed to shake a little.

  “How’s the garden, Edie?”

  “Everything’s doing really well, but Archie, it’s the surprises that I love the most; the unexpected shape of things and the way the colours change with the height of the sun. And the scent, it comes off the lilies when I least expect it.”

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Edie, you’ve caught the bug.”

  “I had no idea it would be like this. The growing, the flowering, it never stops.”

  He smiled then frowned. “I see you’ve got Vivian breathing down your neck more than normal.”

  “She’s moved in.”

  “What!” His chair thumped onto the floor. “She lives with you now?”

  “Yes, she brought the rest of her things over yesterday. She’s gone back to have a final look round.”

  “What about her house?”

  “It’s empty. . . as far as I know.”

  Archie rubbed his chin. “Do you know why, I mean every Tuesday for years?”

  “She said my father needs looking after.”

  He grimaced. “Always had her finger in every pie. Edie —” He cleared his throat. “Is everything alright. . . in the house?”

  “Nothing changes.”

  “Ah, sweetheart.” He relaxed back into his chair. “You can’t see it, but it does.”

  Jean pushed a box of toffees across the counter when I arrived at the shop. “I’m not usually big on giving presents, but get your chops round those.”

  “How did you know it was my birthday?”

  “A little bird told me.” She tapped her cigarette on the side of her ashtray. “Having a nice day?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  “Did he give you anything —?”

  “Who? What do you —?”

  “Your father. Who did you think I was talking about?”

  “Oh, . . . no.” I laughed. “But Archie made me a cake.”

  Jean looked as if she were about to cry. “So, nothing from your dad?”

  “We’re not big on giving presents in my family.”

  “Anything from Auntie Dotty?”

  “She’s not my aunt.”

  Jean smiled. “Bet your mum would have remembered.”

  I said nothing, just opened up a tube of pennies and began dropping them into the till, happy to listen to the repetitive chink as they dropped into the drawer.

  What would my mother have given me?

  47

  The book weighed the same as the others. It even smelt the same as the others but when my torch fell across the title of the book in my hands I felt my arms tingle. ‘Country Gardens by Gertrude Jekyll.’ I held my mother’s book on my lap, just held it. Then I began to explore, shining the torchlight down the spine, sniffing the cover, delving into the heart of the book. I needed this. I needed to know that she, a long time ago, had looked at these pages, had thought about these words. I was touching it so tentatively, hardly daring to turn the page, that I was unprepared for the note in the margin.

  ‘My favourite,’ had been written beneath a photograph of a trailing vine. The caption was tiny; I squinted to read the words, ‘Parthenocissus quinquefolia.’ I tried out the syllables on my tongue, tripping beneath the weight of the Ss, coughing out the Qs. Resting my throat, I continued to read; ‘a climbing plant of great beauty, Virginia creeper is equipped with small adhesive pads, climbing vigourously to cover vertical walls.’ I gazed at the page and my thoughts lowered to a whisper. Vertical walls.

  May warmth had drawn large numbers of people into the nursery. I par
ked my bike further up the lane than before and squeezed it between the doors of a wet Land Rover and the fence. Someone had been round the bottom of the shop sign with a pair of shears and the M in McIntyre had been touched up in black paint. I nibbled the side of my thumb. You do not go to the nursery.

  A strong smell of compost and wet dog greeted me when I pushed open the door. An impromptu brolley park had formed just inside the entrance and I had to push an over-sized golfing umbrella to one side in order to get through.

  Trolley gardens lined the aisle nearest the till, bags of grass seed at the bottom, trays of annuals balanced precariously on top. The regular customers stuck out from the rest. With their towers of stacked plants, they moved through the aisles with confident ease while newcomers eyed their badly packed loads nervously, re-adjusting and tweaking with every movement of the wheels. I glimpsed Nancy Pit at the till, her amiable features harassed into rudeness by the line of people, which started neatly, but broke down when it reached the lawnmower display at the back of the shop. Padding through the carpet of spilt potting compost and escaped beads of vermiculite, I made my way towards the area marked ‘Climbers.’ I rummaged through, fretting that the prices bore no relation to the coins sitting in my purse. Then my hands came to rest on the fastest plant in the world.

  Humulus lupus bore all the hallmarks of speed. The growing tips were pointed like arrows and the tendrils were already out of the box heading in the direction of the largest window in the shop. I picked it up, folded the shoots up into the pot and joined the queue.

  “Good mor. . . oh, hello Edith.” A fresh bloom rose on Nancy Pit’s already flushed cheeks. “How are you, dear?”

  “I’m well, thank you.”

  A troubled look settled over the bloom. “And your aunt?”

  “She’s well too.”

  “Is she. . . likely to be visiting you again soon?”

  “She lives with us now.”

  “Oh. . . Why is that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did she move in with you?” A tut sounded behind.