The Insistent Garden

by Rosie Chard

Seems to be a lot more people in the street these days, what with Vivian and that fake aunt of Edith’s, the one who keeps talking about flowers. They both went by the window only this morning. Not together of course. I can’t imagine those two sharing a couple of Babychams at the pub, can you? Even the woman with all the fags keeps popping into view. She doesn’t come in so much but she often gives the shop window a really funny look as she goes by. It’s like a little play out there sometimes what with Bobby Slater shaking his fist at those boys that nicked the washing off the line and Mrs. O’Dyer turning up out of nowhere with a bruise on her eye the size of a Victoria plum. And all the while I keep seeing the window cleaner cycling along the horizon like a man possessed. I saw Edith’s dad today again too. Blimey, has he got a lot on his mind. When I passed him on the corner he didn’t even glance at that new lipstick I had on. It’s supposed to ‘make men’s heads turn’ — even weathered old blokes like him. Talking of — how’d it go with that new bloke of yours up at the pub the other night? Can’t wait to hear.

  Jean

  63

  I missed Archie. I missed seeing him launch his body across the low wall. And I badly missed our walks round the garden, the way he absorbed every detail as I showed off the flowers, never rushing, never wanting to move on to the next plant. But most of all I missed having someone with whom I could talk.

  We still had occasional contact, a cheery wave flashed from the end of his garden or a ripe tomato left innocently on the top of his wall, and sometimes he joined me on the way to the shops, popping out from behind a hedge then telling jokes all the way back up the hill. He left notes too: ‘The geraniums are thirsty,’ squeezed into a loose joint in his garden wall or ‘Don’t forget to smell the jasmine at midnight’ hidden beneath a clump of flowers. I even found a poem, a two-liner, slipped inside the pocket of my dress as it hung upside-down on the washing line. He denied it, of course. He had never used the word ‘riparian’ in his entire life.

  I was thinking about Archie when a rustling sound drifted in through my bedroom window. Gentle, the sound of someone wrapping presents. I sat bolt upright, unable to remember where I was. Then I saw the clock, threw back the sheets and rushed across to the window.

  A late summer’s day was being born: shadows sneaking across the garden, birds shouldering into lines on the branches of the oak tree; a woman perched on a ladder. I rubbed sleep dust out of my eyes and looked again. Vivian was halfway up the wall, her heels hanging precariously over the third rung, the side of her skirt tucked into her knickers. She held a pair of shears in hand.

  “What are you doing. . . with that plant?” I asked, sauntering up to the bottom of the ladder.

  “Cutting,” she replied, not looking down.

  “Is that plant in our way?” Our.

  “Yes. Your father can’t get to the wall, it’s crumbling in that bit over there.”

  I looked at the patch of newly mortared bricks. “Perhaps I could just trim it for you?”

  “No. It’s nearly off.”

  Her heels had been recently mended at the shop. Complacent sort of heels. I felt an urge to pull the ladder out from under her. I could do it. I had the strength. All I needed was to shove it sideways when she least expected it. Then a question poured from my lips, spilt, like milk from a jug. “Why do we have to hate Edward Black?”

  Vivian climbed slowly down the ladder. “We don’t talk like that in this family.”

  “Why don’t we?”

  She raised her eyebrows, pencils of brown that emphasized the slant of her brow.

  “He might be listening.”

  “Even inside the house?” I felt a flannel of heat on my throat.

  “Walls have ears, whether they’re in or out.”

  I thought of the living room, the racing animals, the layers of paper, the powdery paste.

  “But why do we hate him?”

  “Because he hates us.”

  “And Edith,” she added, suppressing the other ‘why’ that was forming on my lips.

  “Yes?”

  “That man who came to the house the other day — how did he know where you lived?”

  “What man?”

  “The man from the bookshop.”

  “Oh. . . he. . .” I pulled courage from the air. “He came to my mother’s funeral.”

  I heard it before I saw it: a high-pitched cry followed by a thump. My breath quickening, I cracked open the living room door and saw the signs of fear; bird shit streaked the wallpaper, splattering it white and grey and purple and green. I widened the crack until I could see the cause of the mess — a small bird, wretched with despair was perched on the back of the sofa, poised to launch yet rooted to the spot. I opened the door another inch and the bird dived across to the window — that tantalizing view of trees and sky — smacked into the glass, then dropped to the floor. The room fell quiet, yet I thought I heard a heart pumping. I edged towards the window but the bird flew up, straight up, then veered sideways and cracked straight into the glass. I felt panic in my throat — the contagious panic of the little bird — then ran to the window, shoved it open, dashed back to the hall and closed the door behind me.

  “What are you doing?”

  Vivian stood in the hall, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, a terrifying truncheon of print.

  “There’s a bird in the living room,” I said. “I opened the window.”

  Her lips quivered. “A bird?”

  “Yes, a sparrow. It must have come down the chimney.”

  “Kill it!” she said, squeezing the end of the newspaper.

  “I can’t. . . kill it.”

  She gripped my arm. “Edith, kill it or get rid of it, now!”

  The room was draughty when I went back in, the carpet cold beneath my feet. Vivian hovered in the background.

  “It’s gone,” I said.

  She pulled her cardigan across her chest. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “I’ll. . . try.” I watched her back as she returned to the kitchen. Vivian’s step was faster than normal. Her shoulders were taut. Vivian was scared.

  64

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the animals coming into my house. I made up pictures of them in my mind, the fox searching the fridge for eggs, the bird nesting in the airing cupboard, and the spider, gathering up his legs and squeezing through the hole in the bathroom wall. Even the fly, its throat blocked with milk, might be lying somewhere, alone, quietly waiting to dry.

  “Someone’s at the door,” my father said.

  He sat at the kitchen table, threading laces into a new pair of shoes, his fingers whipping round in ever-decreasing circles.

  “It might be my catalogue,” replied Vivian from the other side of the table.

  I placed the plate I’d been cleaning back into the sink and walked into the hall. Johnny Worth bristled with importance as I opened the front door. His shoulders were symmetrical, cap on straight and he held a parcel in his hands as if it were the crown jewels.

  “It’s for you.” He held it towards me.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, look.” Fingers topped with bitten-down nails traced out the address.

  “But I never get parcels.”

  “Do now,” said Johnny smiling. “Here.”

  The parcel was bulky, too bulky to hide beneath my sweater. The writing was unfamiliar. Slightly slanted. Feminine. Johnny Worth folded his arms across and watched me.

  “Is it my catalogue?” called Vivian from the kitchen.

  I held the postman’s eye. “No,” I called.

  “What is it then?” A chair leg scraped.

  “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look much like nothing to me,” said Vivian, joining me on the doormat. She lifted the parcel out of my arms.

  “It’s not for you,” blurted Johnny. “It’s for her.”

  Vivian smiled. I stared at the rarely seen teeth. “Here you a
re then,” she said, handing the parcel back to me. With a nod in the postman’s direction, she turned and returned to the kitchen.

  Johnny grimaced in mock penance. “I better get going.”

  “Thank you for the parcel.”

  “You’re welcome.” He lingered a moment longer, adjusted his bag, then marched off down the garden path. I glided upstairs to my bedroom. Wrapping paper is noisy. It crackled loudly when I exposed the cardboard box that lay inside. I opened the lid and folded back the tissue paper to reveal a pair of brand new leather shoes. As I lifted them out, I found a note lying on the bottom of the box.

  Can’t go out without wearing a beautiful dress

  Can’t wear a beautiful dress without beautiful shoes.

  — D.

  To the sound of creaking leather, I eased them on. Then I tried to walk. Something about the heel made me stretch my neck upwards and by the time I had completed several circles of the room I felt as if my spine had lengthened. I was lighter too, shifting my weight easily from foot to foot, and then pausing in the space in between. After I’d turned a final glorious circle, I slipped the shoes back into the box and hid it at the back of my wardrobe.

  I drifted down the stairs, bracing myself for questions. Would I tell them? I wondered. Lying was easy, when you’ve had a little practice. But a silent room greeted me when I entered the kitchen. My father sucked a pen — traces of ink bleeding onto his lips — while Vivian stared at the crossword with glazed eyes. Neither looked up when I walked over to the sink, picked up the plate and continued to clean.

  Something was happening. But I did not know what it was.

  The house was still quiet when the doorknocker sounded again two hours later.

  “Second delivery,” announced Johnny as I opened the door.

  “Two in one day?”

  He puffed out his chest. “Oh yes,” He ran a finger beneath his collar. “Family at home?”

  “No, they went out.”

  He delved into his bag, pulled out a badly wrapped parcel and held it towards me. “This is for you.”

  “Me?” I balanced the package in my fingertips.

  “Yeah, look, it says here. Edith Stoker.” The tip of his toe inched onto the doormat.

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” A second toe joined the first.

  I glanced at my watch. “I’m not su — I’ll get you one.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll just grab a glass. Kitchen this way?”

  Before I could reply he had stepped into the hall and entered the kitchen. Following him in, I felt relief when I noticed the curtains were still closed. I set the parcel on the table and loosened a corner. Johnny lifted a glass off the draining board, filled it with water and began to drink, sending exaggerated gulping sounds around the room. He slammed the glass down and moved towards me. “It’s from me.”

  I snatched my hand off the parcel. “What. . . is it?” He had cut himself shaving; I could see a piece of tissue clinging to his cheek.

  “Open it and see.”

  The paper came away easily and I lifted the lid with a heavy sense of trepidation. Inside, I saw a broken box containing a single rose. One petal had become dislodged during its time in the postbag and another fell onto the table as I picked it up. When I turned to thank him I realized that Johnny was standing closer than before. His arm whipped around my back, then a kiss, damp and loose-lipped, landed on my cheek.

  “Johnny!”

  He dropped back, a picture of wretchednesss, and then he moved forward again and wrapped my shoulders in long, eager arms.

  For a moment I felt happy, distracted by the warmth from his body, the firmness of his embrace. I pulled away. “Johnny, I. . . please don’t. . .”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry.” There was nowhere to put his arms. Useless, cumbersome things, they wouldn’t lie straight by his sides.

  “Please, don’t be,” I said. “The rose is lovely.”

  “No it’s not,” he replied sulkily. “It’s broken.”

  “I’ll put it in this jam jar, it’ll come back once it’s in water.”

  “No it won’t. It’s finished.”

  I watched Johnny Worth’s back as he dawdled up the street, cap in hand. Questions crowded my mind. Would he still be knocking at my door on the slightest of pretences? Would he even speak to me again? But there was something I did know. Brief, misplaced, unreturned, I had encountered a new feeling. I had seen it at close quarters, something I imagined might be desire.

  65

  The house was holding onto sounds.

  I lifted up my father’s chair, slotted its legs into the small indentations in the carpet and sat down. A worn patch of wallpaper marked the spot where his hand stroked the wall. Why did he sit here? What could he see from this spot in his world? There was the party wall, of course, bulging and wrinkled up like a child wearing too many clothes.

  There was the view outside, a rough triangle of sky showing through the backs of overgrown shrubs, all blurred by the net curtain hanging across the window. I looked again at the patch on the wall — its surface greased by his touch — and felt the stirrings of an undefined feeling. I went into the hall and stood at the centre of the house and looking across at the empty coat pegs I drew in a deep breath. Then I shouted. Quietly. A meow. The dog appeared at the kitchen door — ears up like arrows — and stared. I stared back. Then I inflated my lungs and tried again. This time it came. Up from my stomach, rushing out of my throat like an express wind. This shout was longer. This shout had words.

  “I — don’t — want — to!”

  A teacup rattled; Grinder’s tail flicked out from beneath the kitchen table. I felt better. I really did. Aftershocks of pleasure were still pricking my arms when I drifted into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I leant back and worked a cushion into the small of my back. I really did feel better. As I closed my eyes, the phone rang.

  The phone never rang. I could hardly remember the last time it had summoned me to the living room. It rang again. The handset felt cold in my hand when I picked it up, colder on my ear.

  “Hello,” I said.

  I waited, straining to hear. “Hello?” My breathing grew loud. My thoughts in my head grew loud. Was a distant breath withheld, eyes not blinking? I willed a sound to come. But only a deep, brooding silence hung in the room. I placed the phone back down.

  The house was holding onto sounds.

  66

  Square stems, sticky leaves, sky blue flowers shaped like lips. Salvia uliginosa.

  I watched the clump of sage sway beneath the force of a fretful wind. But the flower’s lips were not pursed in anger but parted in anticipation. A weightless ritual played out in front of my eyes, flowers falling, flowers bending backwards, flowers touching lips.

  I felt myself unraveling. I felt an urge to lift my feet and dance.

  “The wall’s got a crack in it!”

  “What did you say?” My father’s pen hovered above the newspaper; his eyes fixed on my face.

  “Some of the bricks are cracked.” I said. “I saw them just now. Down at the end of the garden.”

  Chair legs scraped; tea splashed onto the newspaper; the answer to six down bled. My father ran out of the back door, Grinder tangled up between his legs. I rushed behind. Vivian tore past us both, bumping my shoulder out of the way.

  A snail was halfway up the high wall as we gathered beneath it. It oozed bubbled up spit and veered sideways under the weight of its shell during its slow ascent. My father rapidly scanned the wall. “Where?”

  I pointed. “There.”

  “I can’t see, where?”

  “Up there,” I repeated, trying to keep my finger still.

  “Don’t just point, get up there and show me! I’ll fetch the ladder.”

  Up there. My legs felt heavy but my father was on the move. He ran to the house, pulled down the ladder, swung it onto his shoulder and walked towards me with a
series of rapid, weighty little steps. I laid my palm on the brickwork; it felt warm; it felt fine.

  He swung the ladder down onto the grass and leaned it up against the wall. “Show me where, I can’t see it. Go up and show me.”

  “She shouldn’t go too high,” said Vivian in a low voice.

  My aunt had been quiet but now she was close, her arms folded across her chest.

  Heart thumping, I placed my foot on the bottom rung, absorbing the questions that started up — ‘Do we have enough cement?’ ‘Where’s the big spade?’ — I concentrated on the one in my head. Who was going to stand on the bottom of the ladder?

  Vivian stood at the bottom of the ladder. I felt her arms go round me as she gripped the rails, a mechanical embrace that made me miss my first step. I had reached the third rung by the time I found the fault. Several bricks had slipped a fraction out of line. I brushed off the opportunistic layer of dust that was already gathering on the newly exposed horizontal and looked backed down. Anxious faces stared back up.

  “It’s here,” I said.

  “Where?” barked Vivian.

  I touched the shifted line. “Here.”

  “I see it. Get down and we’ll fix it,” said my father. He looked diminished from above, a smaller version of himself.

  “We can’t fix it,” I said.

  Two mouths fell open, one deep and black, the other circled with red.

  “Come down,” said my father, quietly.

  The ladder shook on the descent. It murmured, rubbing and creaking and puffing out dust.

  “What did you say?” he said, the gap between his eyes and eyebrows widening.

  What had I said? I couldn’t remember the precise order of words.

  “I. . . I’m not sure if. . .” They stood stock-still, backs to the wall, heads framed by bricks. Was it time? Was this the moment I would speak?

  My fingers curled inwards, I opened my mouth and the words roared out. “I don’t want to!”

  The acid of excitement surged down my arms but as I felt it, the pumping, the rushing, the exhilarating rush of strength, Vivian lifted her huge bosom and bellowed like an outraged elephant. “Go to your room!”