The Insistent Garden

by Rosie Chard

  “Stop!”

  I wasn’t sure who spoke at first. The tone was unrecognisable, the pitch new to my ear.

  “What did you say?” roared my father.

  I remained still. A bottleneck of fresh protest formed in my throat, vying for release, but release never came. I stood in silence as my father picked up the spade, glanced back at the mangled soil and then walked back up the garden.

  In spite of summer warmth pressing against the edge of the house the air inside the cellar was cold. I felt icy fingers down inside my dress as I walked up to my mother’s boxes and pulled out a book at random. Red with gold lettering. The heavy tome fell upon open by itself when I laid it on my lap. My fingers trembled as they traced the words of the poem that had revealed itself.

  And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

  That I scarce was sure I heard you.

  Here I opened wide the door; —

  Darkness there, and nothing more.

  I pulled a flower, limp yet still holding its colour, from my pocket and laid it on the page. Then I tweaked the petals into shape until they bore a rough resemblance to their former selves. Finally I closed the book, wiping away the tear that had fallen onto the cover, placed it inside the box and, devoid of all breath, slipped back upstairs.

  60

  Dotty’s front door had taken on an orange hue in daylight. It cracked open as I walked between the army of hollyhocks lining her garden path next morning.

  “Darling.” The door widened further. “Come in.”

  I wiped my feet and entered the hall.

  “Edith, What is it?” She touched my shoulder.

  I couldn’t speak. Even to the woman who called me darling, I couldn’t speak. Dotty ushered me towards the sofa and sat down beside me — quiet at first, not asking — but as the minutes passed in silence she began to fidget, straightening out the corner of a cushion, inspecting a ladder in her tights. Finally, she spoke. “Sometimes it helps to shout.” I glanced up then looked back at the carpet.

  “No, really,” Dotty persisted. “It’s scientifically proven. Releases morphins or something. Watch this.” With a great deal of ceremony she unbuttoned her jacket, rearranged her stomach, opened her mouth wide and shouted. Loudly. “I am hungry!”

  “Dotty, that was painful!”

  “It’s meant to be. You try.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. You’ll feel better, I promise you.”

  “Someone might hear me.”

  “Darling, that’s the whole point.”

  I laid my hands on my lap and drew in a long, deep breath. Then stopped. “What shall I say?”

  “Anything, it’s just an exercise. Open your mind and say the first thing that comes into your head. It doesn’t matter what.”

  Anything. In this house I could say anything. There would be no crushing silence in this room, no glare of disapproval. Just Dotty, with her lovely suit and lovely face. I adjusted my hands on my lap, focused on a smudge on the wallpaper, took a second deep breath and shouted. “I. . . want. . . him!”

  Dotty looked startled. “Darling! That was. . . quite something.” She beamed. “In fact it was wonderful! Do you feel better? Just a little?”

  Where to look? The carpet had outlasted its use and every time I turned to my friend I felt another layer of heat added to my cheeks.

  “Dotty?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you do the shouting. It’s just an exercise, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So the words, they don’t mean anything, do they?”

  “No, darling. It’s just to help you relax. Gets things off your chest.”

  I twirled a button on the front of my blouse; she adjusted the cushion in the small of her back. “Dotty.”

  “Mmm?”

  “My father came into the garden today.”

  “And?”

  “I was hoping he might be a little bit interested in what I’d done.”

  “But he wasn’t?”

  “He dug up the monkshood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He dug it up. All of it. And threw it away.”

  Dotty’s hand was back on my shoulder. “He didn’t. . . hurt you, did he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. But why the monkshood, do you think?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Edith, wait here a second.”

  The sofa shook as Dotty got up and went over to a bookshelf on the far side of the room.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “This,” She pulled out a fat gardening book and brought it over to the sofa. “There,” she said, pointing at the text a few pages in. “I thought so.”

  The page looked harmless enough; small blue flowers, italicized caption, ‘Aconitum napellus: Monkshood.’ I took the book onto my lap and began to read, nodding silently at ‘deeply cut leaves’ and brushing off dust that obscured ‘violet-blue spikes.’ My finger halted on the final sentence. “Poisonous tubers,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Dotty.

  “What do you mean, ‘exactly’?”

  “They’re poisonous! It’s obvious. He didn’t want you to come to any harm.”

  I pulled my sweater across my chest and stared at the blank television, imagining what I might see there.

  “You could probably do with a new one of those,” said Dotty, cocking her head towards my front.

  “One of what?”

  “Your sweater. It’s seen better days. It may be hard to believe, but I used to be thin like you. I kept some of my old clothes, you know, just in case. Would you like to have a look at them?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Real wool slithered between my toes as we climbed the stairs. I felt serene entering Dotty’s bedroom, noting the single bed, the silver eiderdown, the dressing table dusted with talc.

  “Over here, Edith,” said Dotty, walking towards a wardrobe that dominated the end of the room. “Now, darling, you promise not to laugh.”

  “I won’t.”

  She opened the wardrobe door and stood back. With the best of intentions I looked inside but before I could stop myself I laughed.

  “Edith, you promised.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She smiled. ‘It is silly though, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s lovely.”

  We surveyed the contents of the wardrobe together. Six identical green suits hung on six identical hangers. “How do you decide what to wear in the morning?” I asked.

  “It takes a while,” she said, her face straight. She knelt down and pulled a cardboard box from the back of the wardrobe and tipped it out onto the floor. Dresses had been her favourite garment back then, some slinky, some tailored, and nearly always black.

  “Do you like this one?” Dotty said, holding up a bundle of magenta-coloured cotton.

  I sat back on my heels. “It’s beautiful. But I couldn’t wear something like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not me.”

  Dotty smiled, “But, darling, what is you?”

  I picked up the dress and held it across my front. The material felt cool on my wrist; it tickled.

  “Try it on,” said Dotty, “the bathroom’s over there, I think it’ll suit you.”

  I had never seen my body in a full-length mirror before. Sprigs of elastic sprouted from a seam in my knickers and a loose bra strap trailed down my arm. I slipped the dress over my head and let it fall to my knees. Dotty clamped her hands onto her cheeks as I walked back into the bedroom. “Edith! Edith! Edith!”

  “Do you like it?”

  “You look lovely.” She tipped her head to one side.

  “Can I really borrow it?”

  “Darling, when am I ever going to get myself back into that dress?

  Then Dotty was up close. Conspiratorial. “It’s none of my business, but in that outfit, he’ll want you.”
<
br />   “What’s that on your face?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you been wearing my lipstick?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Vivian licked her finger and rubbed it roughly across my cheek. “I won’t like it if I find you’ve been lying to me.”

  “I haven’t been.”

  61

  I loved the sound of walls being papered. The slurp of the paste as the stick scraped across the bottom of the bucket, the satisfying snip of the scissors. Whenever the paper was unraveled I always felt a thrill, the anticipation of another scene, a new backdrop to our lives. My father was sweating when I entered the living room. I could see half circles of damp cotton flapping beneath his armpits and imagined the cold on his skin. He seemed extra-fidgety, not in his usual distracted way but with an undercurrent of energy just inside his clothes. Without acknowledging my presence, he pulled a roll of wallpaper out of a bag and unrolled it onto the pasting table. “Hold the end, will you,” he said. The scissors cut loudly and cleanly and the smell of fresh paste wafted round the room, lifting the weight of my head off my neck. Taking the sheet by the corners, he climbed up the ladder and turned the sticky side of the paper towards the wall.

  The brush slipped from my hand. “What. . . are those?”

  I could hardly believe what I was seeing; he’d hung a sheet of flowers on the wall. Blue flowers.

  A single word fell from the ladder.

  “Pardon? I didn’t catch what you said.”

  He turned down towards me, dropped a curt ‘nothing’ and then looked back at the wallpaper.

  I watched the side of his face. Blue flowers, he chose blue. His brush began to slap the wallpaper, easing air bubbles towards the edge of the sheet and I felt an urge to say, ‘I like that.’

  “Does the job,” he said, as if I’d spoken.

  “I was wondering. . .” I glanced at the faded pattern on the adjacent wall. “Do you think you might like to paper the whole room one day?”

  He looked down. “The whole room?”

  “I mean the other three walls. Perhaps we could paper them all. . .”

  He climbed down the ladder in slow motion. He walked over to the worn spot on the side wall and held his hand against it. “I can’t paper over this,” he said.

  Maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe my ears were plugged with wax. Several hours had passed since my father had said something from up the ladder, but instead of creating a haze, time had sharpened the memory, and the more I thought about it the more I felt certain I knew what he had said. ‘Sorry.’

  62

  I’d always been good at recognizing the shape of heads. Even as a child I’d had a keen eye for an outline and could recognize who was at the front door even before they knocked by the silhouettes in the frosted glass. The brick merchant was a square, the milkman, with his wide jaw and pointed hat, a triangle, and the postman, cap askew, a badly drawn “T”. I occasionally imagined them all in a hat shop together, searching the shelves, choosing the best fit.

  It was a warm Thursday when a new head appeared in the window of the door. It was shaped like a heart, a heart with a hole in it, as the face yawned on the other side of the glass.

  “Oh, sorry.” Harold covered his mouth with his hand as I opened the door. “Bit of a late night.”

  I stepped back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, that’s a fine welcome, I —”

  “Who’s out there?”

  I’d hardly noticed the shadow move onto the hall wall and turned at the last moment to see Vivian standing behind me. How to reply? Was he an acquaintance? A strange kind of friend? Or just the man who used to be fond of my mother? I stood rigid, unable to think of a single thing to say.

  “Harold Jones,” said Harold, stepping into the hall and holding his hand towards Vivian.

  I don’t think my aunt knew how to shake. She glanced at her palms then held a limp hanky of a hand towards him. “Vivian Stoker,” she muttered.

  “I have something for Edith,” Harold continued in his bookseller voice. “A wonderful new anthology.”

  Vivian gathered herself up, a little shake of her skin, a tweak of her lips. But I pre-empted it; for once I pre-empted. “Would you like to come into the living room?” I said, gesturing towards the doorway.

  “Delighted, “said Harold.

  I stepped into the room, then froze. How could I forget? How could I for even one moment forget?

  “Bloody hell!” said Harold, following me in. “What. . . happened here?”

  I followed his gaze. The wallpaper was wrinkled up like an ancient face, pockmarked with air bubbles and little tears and strange angles that led the eye down to the floor, then back up again.

  “Please take a seat,” I said.

  Vaguely aware of the retreating rustle of material, I realized Vivian had gone and now, devoid of all red, Harold and I stood stranded in the room, not speaking, not knowing how to get back to where we had been before. He moved over to the wall and ran his hand across the back end of a horse. “What is this?”

  “My father likes to paper the wall a lot, he always has. He can’t help it —”

  “Is he ill?” Harold asked.

  “No! — No. He’s not ill. He just likes to paper the wall. . . every week or so. . . It helps him to. . . survive.”

  “Survive what?” Harold persisted.

  “I. . . his life. . .”

  He moved closer. “What’s wrong with his life?”

  “He. . . worries too much.”

  Harold gazed back up at the wall. “Christ, Edith, how do you live like this?”

  “It’s not as bad as it seems. . .”

  He gave me a long look then walked over to the lamp sitting on a side table and ran his fingers through the tassels hanging from the shade. “Is your father in?”

  “No.”

  His neck seemed to relax and he sat down on the sofa and folded his hands carefully over his knees. I sat beside him, aware of the smell of mildew coming off the carpet.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked.

  “No thanks.” He glanced round.”What do you do in this room? Where’s the television?” He glanced round further. “And where do you keep your books?”

  I struggled to think. The backs of my father’s ankles were the only picture that came into my head. “We’re usually in the kitchen. It’s warmer there.”

  “I can imagine.”

  The sound of a teaspoon dropping against a saucer echoed from another room.

  “I should get going.” Harold stood up, then delved into his pocket, pulled out a book and held it towards me. “As you hadn’t been to the shop for a while, I decided to bring you these poems. I thought you’d enjoy them. I’m sorry I called without warning.”

  I took the book and held it in my hands. Not heavy, but the cover was made of cloth and I could feel the weave beneath my fingers. “Thank you.”

  “It was nice to see you again, Edith.”

  “You too.”

  He came towards me — that smell again, fruity and spicy; it lodged in my nostrils. “I hope you’ll come to the bookshop again soon. And —” He glanced at the wall. “If you ever need me, you know, for anything, some warmth in a cold room, you know where to find me.”

  I lay the book down on the sideboard and attempted an outside smile. “Yes, thank you, I do.”

  Shadows are silent. Shadows fall on the ground, yet this shadow — did I imagine it? — didn’t quite fall; it came from behind and hovered in the air.

  “Who was that man?” said Vivian, back in the doorway, her hands sunk into the flesh around her waist.

  “Harold Jones,” I said. Lies take time. Good lies take a while to prepare.

  “And who is Harold Jones?”

  “He works in the bookshop.”

  “What bookshop?”

  “The one on Adlington Street.”

  Her e
yes widened, a single eyebrow twitched. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I. . . I’ve been to the shop a couple of times, while I was waiting for our heels to be done, and we got talking —”

  “What about?”

  “Well. . . books.”

  “That doesn’t explain what he was doing here.”

  I hesitated. “I bought a book and then forgot it. He was visiting his mother on the next street so he brought it round.” I held it towards her, the tip of a title lay beneath my thumb.

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  She didn’t move, just watched me as if waiting for me to speak then she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  A good lie; perhaps it doesn’t take that long after all.

  It wasn’t until the church bell had broken my sleep three times that I remembered I’d left Harold’s book downstairs. After the strain of avoiding Vivian for the last part of the day, I’d gone to bed early with my mind full not of the book but of Harold, of his astonished face, of the backdrop of flowers and stampeding animals and of the uncomfortable shift in us. I’d forgotten all about his gift to me, lying on the sideboard. I was making my way down to the living room when I saw someone was already there — an outline — a man and a darkened room melded into one. I hovered on the bottom stair as the outline, silently and slowly, re-assembled itself. My father, bent forward, the light from the street reflected off his face, a book cradled in his hands.

  34 Ethrington Street

  Billingsford,

  Northamptonshire

  August 24th 1969

  Dear Gill,

  Ooh, Gill, this creepy man turned up today. Spent ages with the pickles, reading the ingredients, turning the jar round ever so slowly, and looking at the door as if expecting someone to come in. He had a book under his arm — at first I thought he’d pinched one of our Mills and Boon (have you got through ‘The Unwilling Bride’ yet?) but then I saw it was some poetry mush and let it go. He looked like a man on a mission to me; he bought ciggies and Old Spice aftershave (large bottle) and slunk out of the door before I got a chance to properly look him over.