The Insistent Garden

by Rosie Chard

  “I. . . she was. . . lonely,” A penny of heat rose on my cheeks; I could feel it.

  Nancy Pit’s lips curved upwards. “I see. Is this vine your only plant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good choice. Mile-a-minute. Is it for the wall?”

  The wall. The word had been said. Out loud.

  “. . .yes.”

  My hands trembled as I hung my bag on the handlebars. I turned to watch the woman through the shop window. Why did she keep coming to the house? And why did Vivian refuse to let her in? As I swung my leg over the crossbar I remembered her last words. I could not go there again.

  I heard feet running; I glimpsed red; I smelled sweat, but I was unprepared for the hit. An inch of pain welded itself to my chest as Vivian rushed passed me, shoved her elbow into my ribs and sent me stumbling to the floor. As I sat slumped against the wall, I heard her yank open the front door.

  “Get off my property!” bellowed Vivian’s voice somewhere above.

  A face hovered above me through strings of white light. “I. . . oh, look what you’ve done!”

  “She’ll be alright.” Vivian said, from somewhere high up.

  A blurred face veered towards me. “Are you alright, dear?”

  “Yes, thank you, just dizzy.”

  “Are you sure?” Let me help you up.”

  “It’s alright” I said, “I’ll sit here for a minute.”

  I rubbed my eyes, fleshing out sparks. Then the face receded and female voices continued to shout, ricocheting through the space above my head.

  “Vivian, we have to —”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “Vivian —”

  “Out!”

  Heels clicked, feet smeared the floor, and a voice called out from a distance. Then the door slammed.

  I rubbed my forehead, savouring the quiet that had settled on the hall. When I looked up, it was just in time to catch the flannel plopped down onto my lap.

  A piece of bruised meat wore my clothes that night. My forehead throbbed, a stick of pain poked my back, and only by gritting my teeth did I manage to down lie on my bed and think about the events of the afternoon.

  Why did Vivian not want to meet Nancy Pit? Her friend. But Vivian had no friends. Not one single person had visited her since she moved permanently into our house. She had managed to scare away the handful of friendly regulars: the brick merchant had replaced his regular quips about ‘building the Berlin Wall’ with sullen requests to ‘sign on the dotted line,’ and even the milkman had abandoned his attempts at early morning pep, putting down the bottles in a rush before tearing back up to the gate as fast as he could go. Only Johnny Worth had managed to remain cheerful in the face of my aunt’s ever-increasing curtness. But Nancy Pit? She used to be Vivian’s friend. Something to be treasured, not cast out like a pile of old clothes. I fluffed air into my pillow, lay on my back and stared at the crack in the ceiling. It was longer.

  34 Ethrington Street

  Billingsford,

  Northamptonshire

  20th May 1969

  Dear Gillian,

  Is everyone round here a bit odd? I was up the ladder, trying to get at that mouldy loaf I was telling you about — the one that horrible kid threw up onto the high shelf — when in bursts this woman. Talk about scared. She was dragging on her fag like it was her last gasp and her collar was damp and tucked in like she’d dressed in a hurry. She had some sort of uniform on under her coat, green with a flowery badge. She didn’t notice me at first and I saw her look back out of the window all anxious and fidgety and I half expected to see a copper come panting up the hill after her. Can I help you? I say from above, and she jumped out of her skin, really jumped. I swear I saw her feet leave the floor. Well, she bought seven packets of Rothmans, yes seven, and rushed out before I had a chance to probe. I know what you’re thinking, that’s not much of a story, but Gill, she’s got me wondering, maybe something funny is going on in this street. But enough about me. How’s it going with that new bloke of yours? Oh, I forgot to say, Edith’s come in to work with a cut on her forehead. Said it was the mop end that had done it.

  Mops can do that to you. Can’t they?

  Jean

  48

  Grinder seemed content to take his place in the family, content to eat from a bowl labeled ‘G,’ and more than content to lift his fur into crests every time I entered the kitchen. He knew well the power of a black gum and even padded into my dreams, chasing off all other participants until I woke, gripping my blanket and inspecting my bed to see if real dog hairs had been left on the sheets.

  The dog ruled the underside of the kitchen table like a petty policeman. Ticklish flicks from his tail, grazes from sloppy dog lips and random shoves from a bony backside whenever he turned round all punctuated our meals. His timing was perfect; he knew to release wind just as the meal appeared on the plates and he knew to open his mouth whenever a careless elbow sent tidbits over the edge. Vivian loved him, if dragging back his ears painfully could be called love, while my father ignored him, so making him the focus of Grinder’s slavish devotion.

  His care had fallen to me. I spent many anxious moments waiting for him to close his eyes so I could refill his feeding bowl, while letting him out into the back garden, as instructed by my aunt, led to daily bouts of worry as I watched his tail scythe through my plants like the blades of a helicopter.

  It did not take Grinder long to discover the cellar. I smelled him before I saw him, that mix of damp towels and mud and he pushed open the door just as I’d pulled the blanket across my knees and padded slowly the steps like a princess arriving at a ball. I tried to meet his eye but recoiled at his shockingly pink tongue, too long for his mouth, which dripped saliva onto the concrete floor.

  “Hello,” I whispered.

  He moved closer and nuzzled my knee, and then he growled, a low, quivering noise that roughed up the sounds of the cellar.

  “Please don’t,” I murmured, “they’ll find me.”

  He growled again and as I glimpsed his face I felt suddenly revolted by the brown membranous edge to his eyes. But dogs, I now know, don’t respond to the doubt of a human and a bony flank bumped my leg and his chin came to rest on my knee. I lifted my hand and tentatively stroked the top of his head. It felt soft, like the fur of a teddy bear I once had. As he closed his eyes I withdrew my hand and opened the book lying on my lap. My torch threw a pale circle onto the page.

  The dog searches until he finds me

  upstairs, lies down with a clatter

  of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

  Then, for the first time, down in the cellar, very quietly, with my fist pressed into my mouth, I laughed.

  It was how I imagined a hotel: sheets changed every day, sinks checked hourly, and a selection of dishes prepared for every meal. Grinder was not the only new member of the family to alter the working of the house. Ever since Vivian had moved in full time my chores had been ratcheted up to new levels. Sweat glands out of control, she changed her clothes at least twice a day, constantly re-organizing the layers, a vest beneath a blouse, a jerkin beneath a cardigan, and by the time night fell, a sweaty pile would be waiting at the end of my bed with silent instructions to wash. She forced her china into already-full cupboards, squeezed plastic-covered furniture into the living room and tightened the toothpaste cap so tightly it hurt my fingers every time I tried to unscrew it. My father reacted to the shifting rhythm of the house with a surge of activity of his own, papering an entire woodland scene onto the living room wall before discovering a seam of flaking brickwork that needed his attention at the end of the garden.

  It was a warm day in June when a part of my neighbour’s life reached into my garden. This day, like many others before it, felt breezy. Billingsford was not known for windiness but my street traversed the bent back of a hill and I fought a constant battle with hair slapping my face and rubbish flying up from my dustbin. It was while I was wiping brick dust out of my eyes tha
t I first caught sight of the ‘thing.’ A small object flew up over the high wall, plummeted, lifted up again, and then flipped backwards before landing at the end of the garden. I did not move. I just gripped the ladder more tightly and stared at the underside of my father’s heels. At the same moment, he dropped a sentence from three rungs up so I stepped down onto the ground and let go of the ladder. As he climbed down, I scanned the far end of the garden, looking for a sign of it.

  “Watch out!” yelled my father.

  I moved to the side as he swung the ladder horizontal but when I looked back I had the object in my sight. Brown, crumpled and still.

  “That’s enough for today.” He picked a piece of dry mortar off the back of his hand. “Let’s clean up.”

  I wrung out the cloth while I eyed my father. I watched him balance the ladder against the house. I watched him smack dust off the back of his hands. Finally, as the back door groaned shut behind him I turned round and walked down to the end of the garden.

  I saw a dead rabbit once. It had collapsed beneath the end of the high wall, a dandelion leaf still stuck between its teeth. I had longed to stroke its poor dead ears but something had held me back, and now, standing four feet from the object — in the grass — the same set of conflicting feelings came over me. I elongated my body, stretching my calves and lengthening my neck, until I could see what it was. A sock lay in the grass. Just a simple sock, curled up in the grass like a small animal inside its nest. I glanced at the wall, and then inched closer. I was almost upon it when I heard my name being called. Quicker than a sparrow pecking at worms, I snatched up the sock, stuffed it into my pocket and hurried up to the house.

  “What were you doing down the end?” my father asked.

  “Clearing up.”

  “Well, hurry up. It’s time for tea.”

  I returned to the garden and started my ritual; I gathered up the tools, I closed the bag of mortar before dragging it to the side of the shed, all the time aware of the damp patch forming at the side of my skirt. Anyone could see it. Anyone with a sharp eye would know about the sock in my pocket, wouldn’t they? I sidled through the back door; the newspaper was up.

  Sixty percent cotton, forty percent acrylic, foot size ten. I turned the sock over in my hand as I sat on my bed. It felt cool on my fingertips and the temptation to slip it over my hand was immense. I sniffed the toe, drawing in a heady mixture of washing powder and soil. Then I lifted up my leg and pulled the sock over my foot, stretching its baggy cuff halfway up my calf. My toes tingled. Never in my life had my toes tingled. It took a moment to identify the feeling as pleasurable before I succumbed, slipping into the feeling, so damp, so sensuous, so deliciously cool. Then I wrenched the sock off and threw it across the room. What was I doing? I had hidden something from my father; I had lied, and now I was doing something unthinkable, obscene. I was wearing his clothes.

  49

  The high wall had small feet. I discovered this as I dug a hole for the climbing vine. The foundation was eaten away at the edges and cracked concrete showed just below the surface. The plant seemed smaller now that it had been removed from its pot and sunk into a hole. I wondered how fast it could really grow.

  “You opening a brewery?”

  I looked up from my work. “Archie! What are you doing up so early?”

  “Someone starts digging and I come running. You have purchased the plant of the impatient gardener, I see. Wilf not around, is he?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just checking.” He began his routine, demonstrating an unusually limber power kick as he came over his wall. He landed neatly, then scanned the house, swiveling the top half of his body round on moss-stained trousers.

  I looked at the plant at my feet. “What do you mean, a ‘brewery’?”

  “Didn’t they tell you? You’re planting a climbing hop, the ornamental one. Come autumn, that vine will be up the bricks, onto your roof, and mine, and we’ll be knee deep in hops. Might even help hold that wall up.”

  “Does it really grow that fast?”

  “Oh, yes,” He looked over my shoulder. “Oh, Edie, the garden’s coming on a treat.”

  I smiled. “Come and look with me, Archie.”

  We settled down to a serious inspection of the plants. Archie slipped into Latin without realizing he was doing it and it was during a discussion about Brunnera macrophylla that I heard the noise.

  “Can you hear that sound?” I said.

  “What sound?” Archie replied.

  “That clipping sound.”

  “Sweetheart, you know my ears are worn out.”

  “It’s coming from the tree.”

  We looked towards the old oak tree that straddled the high wall. Something flickered just above the top. Hands. They were moving hands, snipping at twigs, brushing away clippings, and then snipping again. I stared in horror, unable to look, unable to not.

  I gripped Archie’s sleeve. “It’s him!” But before he had time to respond the sound ceased. The hands disappeared behind the wall and I was aware of nothing but the wind poking around the garden, lifting leaves then dropping them.

  “Archie,” I whispered, “he’s trying to look over.”

  “Calm down, he’s just trimming the tree.”

  “How did he get so high?”

  “He must be on a ladder.”

  A ladder. I had a ladder. “Archie, help me.” I ran towards the house.

  “Edith, wait! What are you doing?”

  “I want to see.”

  “It’s too heavy for you.”

  “I have to see.”

  “Mind your head.”

  “Archie, get the end.”

  “Careful.”

  “Push it up. Higher.”

  “Here?”

  “There!”

  “Archie, can you stand on the bottom rung?”

  “Edie, are you sure?”

  “I have to see over.”

  “Edie!”

  The rails shuddered; I moved up a step, grinding the top of the ladder into the bricks.

  “Archie, can you hold it more firmly?”

  “Are you really sure about this?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure.”

  “Hold tight, please,” he urged, flashing a pale tongue.

  The ladder trembled as I climbed higher but the fear of falling off was eclipsed by a greater fear. The ground dropped away; the sky widened; leaves tickled my face. Then a new voice entered the garden. A roar. “Get down!”

  My father looked different from above. I saw a face tipped upwards that I hardly recognized. Gravity had pulled his cheeks back into a smile and his eyebrows were stretched into friendliness. But the words shooting up towards me were familiar.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing up there?”

  “I. . .”

  “Get down!”

  I climbed down quickly, misjudging the bottom rung in my haste, jarring my heel onto the ground.

  “What were you doing?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He took a step towards me. “What were you doing?”

  “Wilf, don’t!” said Archie.

  My father turned to the old man, his face creased with fury. “You can leave now, Archibald.”

  Archie swallowed; I saw his Adam’s apple plummet down his neck.

  “That wall will destroy you,” he said, quietly.

  “That’s none of your business,” snapped my father. “Get off my property. I don’t want to see you sneaking round here again.”

  Archie glanced in my direction then walked towards his garden wall, the backs of his slippers crushed flat.

  “What were you doing?” My father’s face was close.

  “I don’t know, I’m sorry, I saw hands. . . I —”

  “Hands! Whose hands?” Panic flickered in his eyes. “You mustn’t go up the ladder. Ever. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.”

  Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

&n
bsp; For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night.

  Damp cellar air seeped beneath my clothes, yet the book warmed a square of skin on my lap. The words were blurred on the page and nothing could sharpen them. Archie was gone. Another line had been drawn on the page of my life, in a thick black pen. Yet I couldn’t help return to that moment in my thoughts. The moment I had started to climb. The moment it had felt good.

  50

  Hands. Hands holding twigs.

  I could think only of the bodiless fingers next day. The big boulder felt rough against my legs when I sat down on it and settled my body into the depression in which it fit. When I looked up at the oak tree I saw drops of sap oozing up from the pruning circles left behind, a softly bleeding cut. Then I remembered the yellow brick I’d found back in November. My yellow brick. I hadn’t pulled it out since that first time, scared of what I might see. But my yellow brick, I realized in a flash of panic, was gone.

  I jumped up, rushed across to the wall and ran my fingers back and forth across the brickwork until at last I found it. Still yellow, still mortared with moss. I held my palm there for a few seconds before returning to the boulder, secure in the knowledge that no-one else had found it. But as I looked back up at the wall I failed to suppress a cry. The yellow brick had disappeared again.

  I was calmer this time. I got to my feet slowly, took a leisurely route back to the wall and found the brick easily. I stood confounded. It felt like something had dragged my whole garden out of skew. I returned to the boulder and looked back up. It was then that I realized. The brick had not moved. My boulder had been turned.

  My toes reflected in the bath taps, little skin stones that looked like they belonged to someone else. In spite of the sea horses racing across the wallpaper it was hard not to dwell on the last few hours. A person had moved the boulder in my garden. I tried to imagine the weight of it as it rubbed the skin of an unknown shoulder. A dog had barked in the night — somewhere far or somewhere close — but that was the only sound I had heard from between my sheets. I tried to relax, dropping my body beneath the water line, throwing off the rapidly cooling pool that had gathered between my breasts, and savoured the last pockets of warmth that swirled in eddies beneath the small of my back. I felt soothed by the sounds of the house: a teaspoon hit a saucer one floor below, someone opened a drawer. I looked towards the spider’s hole. Only air seeped through from his bathroom to mine. Then, the house let forth a new sound as someone dropped an object, close by. My thoughts raced, teaspoon, drawer. But no match could be made with the sound inside the bathroom. Then I realized. It was coming from the other side of the wall.