The Insistent Garden

by Rosie Chard

  “I never met you but I knew you,” I said.

  “I never met you but I knew you,” he replied.

  “Edith,” He moved his feet closer to mine. “I have to explain, I know that. When I came to live in this house. . .”

  “You came?”

  “Yes, I moved here after my father died and on that first day something happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “I saw you in the garden and. . .” he looked down, “I couldn’t stop looking at you. . . watching you.”

  I looked into the black hole of his irises. “Why did I never see you?”

  His eyelashes flickered; the grass was receiving a deep massage. “It’s hard to put it into words. I don’t go out much; I like to be alone and I like the night. I moved into my father’s house and milk bottles were thrown over the wall and I stepped into his shoes without realizing it — but Edith, where is your father now?”

  “He was taken ill. He’s in hospital.”

  “Is he alright?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Vivian, my aunt. . . she called earlier.”

  “Is she the woman?”

  “Yes, she’s the woman.”

  He frowned. “Don’t you want to be with him?”

  I hugged my knees. “I don’t know.”

  He gazed up at the high wall. “I wasn’t there when my father died.

  He left me the house —”

  “Not your mother?”

  “No. They got divorced years ago. I moved here so I could live alone, just me, but then I. . .”

  “Didn’t want to live alone?”

  “Yes, no. . . I had a lot on my mind. . .”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Things about my father.” His hands stilled. “I left it too late, you see. After my parents split up, my father never contacted me and my mother didn’t want to talk about him. But I often thought of him. I had this idea that I would visit him one day, you know, just turn up on his doorstep and introduce myself. But it was hard. My mother got so sad sometimes and I stopped mentioning him. But I didn’t stop thinking about him and I decided — when the time was right — I’d meet him, just come to the house and. . . meet him. But I left it too late. He died before I got here and I. . . I hardly remembered what he even looked like.”

  “My mother died when I was a baby. I don’t remember her either.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No. All I have left of her is her books. My father put them all in the cellar and I go down there at night sometimes and look at them. They’re mainly poetry. She loved poetry.” I looked down the garden. “She loved flowers.”

  “Does he know you look at her books?” Alden asked.

  “No.” I looked up through the branches of the apple tree. When I looked back he was still watching me. “How do you live?” I said.

  “I inherited a little money from my father and I have a job.”

  “Inside the house?”

  He laughed. “No, I work at the hospital, the night shift.” He turned towards me. “Edith. Why did your father build the wall?”

  “He said you. . . your father, would hurt us. We had to hate you.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  He glanced over my shoulder. “She never told me about any of this.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “My mother.”

  I studied his mouth, trying to predict the next word to come out.

  “But she told me about my father,” he continued. “He changed after they married. She never told me what happened but I know he wouldn’t talk to her. Then he hit her.” Alden pushed a hair off his face. “So we moved out.”

  “Where did you go?” I picked a daisy out of the grass.

  “Not far. The other side of town.”

  “Our fathers used to be friends,” he continued.

  I thought of Harold. “I know.”

  Alden wrenched a blade of grass out from its socket; it was pale at the end.

  “You have some blood on your hand,” I said.

  “I bleed easily,” he replied, wiping a red dot from his knuckle.

  I stared at his hands — the hands that pushed through the letter box, the hands that pruned the tree.

  “It was you! The letters.”

  “Yes.” He smiled sheepishly. “It was me. I hoped you’d return them yourself. But you never did.”

  Alden stroked the grass again, flattening the stalks beneath the weight of hands. I felt strange, as if a creature was waking inside me.

  “Alden,” I said.

  He glanced up. “Yes?”

  “I want to go inside.”

  “It’s alright,” he said, “there’s no one here but us.”

  “I want to go back inside your house,” I said. “With you.”

  “Wha —”

  “I want to go now.”

  Alden looked puzzled as I slipped my fingers through his and pulled him up the garden. I rushed him through the back door; he tripped; we laughed; I gathered him up. We ran up the stairs; I knew where the bedroom was located. I pushed open the door, and looked round the room: clothes on the floor, a book flat on its back, a glass of water, half drunk; a nest of roughed-up blankets beckoned from a bed in the corner of the room. The flowers on the wallpaper blurred as I placed my hands on him.

  The hinges on the garden gate squeaked out a complaint; a shot of lamplight hit the back of the hall at its usual angle. Yet my house felt different when I walked in the door at three in the morning. Had the smell of the hall changed? Were there fewer coats on the pegs? I kicked off my shoe, sending it flying towards the ceiling. Then I removed my tights and flung them up the stairs where they slumped onto the frame of the single painting hanging on the wall, Samuel Palmer’s ‘Coming Home from Evening Church.’

  I began to swing my arms, back and forth, higher and higher and in the final swing dropped down into a handstand against the wall — just pointed toes, sagging petticoat and an upside-down dress.

  The dog, inverted, scuttled towards me; his ears retracted, and then froze.

  “You look hungry,” I said, after dropping my feet to the ground. “Let me find you some food.”

  He pushed his eyebrows up into a peak, padded back into the kitchen and waited patiently while I opened a tin of dog food and with my hand held just beneath his nose, scraped it into his bowl. The sight of his chewing reminded me of my hunger and I set about making myself a meal, baked beans and toast with extra butter. Ignoring the sluggish, orange, juice spitting onto the cooker, I sat down at the table, opened up the newspaper and started work on the crossword. Oh, why had they agonized so? Toast crumbs peppered the crossword as I worked; I cheered at rigmarole, agonized over animosity, before I placed the pen back down on the table.

  When I finished my meal I picked up the knife and licked it clean. Then, swirling my tongue in circles, I cleaned off the plate. Finally, I reached up and put it back into the cupboard.

  I instinctively pulled on a sweater before peeling it off again, marveling at that rarest of things, a warm English night. My garden awaited me. Our garden. The wall was hunched towards me like a giant’s back but nothing could obscure the thought, the deep, sensual thought of the place beyond.

  The moon was up. Huge and round and familiar. I gazed at its eye, then at its mouth dropped open into an oval, and reveled in a new feelings. I knew what was on the other side of the wall. Feeling the thrill of possibilities, I wanted to pull down the sky, it looked so immense. And the stars, they looked close enough to touch.

  My nose twitched; something was releasing scent into the night air. I ambled down the garden, between the trees and past the stone circle until I reached the blue border, almost invisible in the darkness. The scent was stronger here and I traced it to a jasmine bush that was scrambling over the low wall. I plucked a sprig and slipped it behind my ear and then looked back at Archie’s house. His bedroom window looked lonely but the curtains had a solid look tha
t I found comforting. I strolled back towards my house but when I reached the circle of boulders a door creaked open to my right and I heard the soft sound of slippers rub across the grass.

  “Archie, I thought you were asleep,” I said to the face that appeared on the other side of the wall.

  “What are you doing out here so early?”

  I smiled in the darkness. “Thinking.”

  “What happened? I saw the ambulance but I thought you’d all gone.”

  “My father had a heart attack.”

  “Is he alright?”

  “Yes, I think so. Vivian called me.”

  An odd expression shaped his face. “So you didn’t worry?”

  “Yes, so I didn’t worry.”

  His eyes dropped to my legs. “Sweetheart, what are you wearing?”

  “A dress.”

  He rubbed his hand across his head. “Edie.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “It is.” I flipped my hair off the back of my neck.

  He peered towards my face. “Edie, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I adjusted a button that lay in the wrong hole. “But Archie, there’s something I want to tell you. Come over.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said.

  He stepped back and disappeared inside the shawl of darkness draped across the wall. I could not see him cross but I heard him: a belt rattled as his trousers were shaken into position, spitted palms were rubbed together and a word sounding like ‘geyerselfover’ punctured the dark. He landed in a square of light beaming from the kitchen window.

  “It’s something important, isn’t it?” he said, coming towards me.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tell me quickly. I want to know what has brought a smile to my girl’s face.”

  “I went next door.”

  “You mean —?”

  “Yes. To his house.” The darkness absorbed the heat from my cheeks.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone.”

  “What happened?”

  “I met Alden Black.”

  “Alden. . . Black. I haven’t thought about him for years.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Yes, well, I knew the baby. . . Black. He must be what —”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Yes, you and he were born in the same year. But he moved away, his mother took him somewhere across town.” Archie’s eyes narrowed. “What about Edward?”

  “Edward is dead.”

  His eyes widened. “When?”

  “A year ago.”

  “But how come we never saw. . .”

  “He died in hospital.”

  “So the wall was. . .”

  “Yes, the wall was for nothing. It was only for my father. And for me.”

  “It was more than nothing for your father. For him it was real. He wasn’t always like this, you know, Edie. Before your mother died he was happy. But her death, it knocked the stuffing out of him. He misses her.”

  “I miss her too.” I said.

  “Yes, sweetheart, I know.”

  We stood in silence. Jasmine grew.

  “Archie.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t work on the wall anymore.”

  He stepped forward. I could hardly breath as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, tightening his grip until the collar of his dressing gown scratched my nose. He released his arms and peered into my face. “Edie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you alright? I mean, this a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Archie, “I’m so relieved. . . but I’m scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Of what’s going to happen when my father gets home.”

  I removed my clothes slowly, dropping them to the bedroom floor and then climbed into bed naked. I switched off the light and closed my eyes. My eyes fell open and I thought of him. That final glimpse loomed large in my mind: his pale forehead sunk into his pillow, his eyelashes damp with wet. Finally, trawling through my memories, still raw, still moist, I allowed myself to dwell on the unthinkable. I had touched the skin of a stranger. I had soaked myself in him. And I wanted to soak some more.

  34 Ethrington Street

  Billingsford,

  Northamptonshire

  September 24th 1969

  Dear Gillian,

  I had two visitors today. Both were talking about the same person but they did not know it. Edith was the main topic but luckily it was her day off. First Archie dropped by. He didn’t meant to. He was walking past the shop with his hand across his mouth so I dashed out and got him inside. What’s bothering you, I asked him over a cup of tea. Nothing he says, but I know when nothing means something so I went at him from the other side. Not like you to be downcast, I say. Got a problem with earwigs again? I’m worried about Edith he says, all slowly and a bit overdramatic. What about Edith? I say, but you know Gill, he just would not say what about Edith. My Raymond was the same, put a morsel on the table but never get round to dishing up the main course. Anyway, Archie adds to the mystery by saying, keep an eye on her, Jean, — as he’s half out the door.

  So I’m thinking, I thought he was the one keeping an eye on her when Frank Slammer — the butcher from up on Gravelly Road — shows up. I had to stand back as he always smells of steak, or sausages, or something a bit raw and it gets a bit much up close. His poor wife, don’t know how she stands it. Anyway, I just couldn’t resist — him being born in this town and that — I asked him if he knew anything about Edith and her mum. Wished I hadn’t. He looked really unhappy and said he’d known Miriam, said she’d adored his special sausage rolls with the fancy pastry and said it upset him a lot when she suddenly died. But ‘how did she die,’ came out before I could stop it and he starts telling me about the inquest, it was in the papers — wait Gill, the lorry’s here — I’ll finish this later.

  In a rush.

  Jean

  73

  Three hours passed. Three hours encased inside a new skin. New, yet perfectly fitting.

  A different person woke up in my bed late the next morning. Someone else’s hands felt the darkness of the cupboard searching for clothes. Someone else’s toes stretched to a point as I drew my socks over them. It was not until I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror that I felt confident I remained Edith Stoker. Remained myself.

  Eating toast at the kitchen table I couldn’t help but re-live the events of the previous evening. My father’s face loomed large in every thought: the sweat that lined the edge of his hair, the slack, dull-looking jaw, but it was a small detail that stuck out in my memory; a piece of paper wedged to the underside of the table. I bent down, ran my hand beneath the wood and pulled something out. But it wasn’t a piece of paper. It was a seed packet, faded to white and torn at the corner. I brushed off the dust and read.

  Copper-skinned bulbs, purple blooms, endless flowering.

  Heat treated to reduce bolting.

  I studied the date stamped on the bottom of the packet, but just as I was trying to read the last two numbers I heard a sound. A key turned in the front door, hinges whimpered, the floorboards creaked and a figure stepped into the sunbeam that obliquely crossed the kitchen doorway. I slipped the packet into my pocket.

  “Get the kettle on,” said Vivian.

  My aunt looked tired. As someone with high demands for sleep she showed all the signs of a person who had spent the night in a chair, lipstick smudged, eye wrinkles lined with mascara. Aware of a minor tightening in my new skin, I stood up and went over to the sink. The water sounded louder than normal as it thundered down into the kettle; the gas ring growled when I lit it with the match.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “Did you do this?” Vivian said, resting her finger on the crossword puzzle lying open on the table.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked sly. “Misanthrope?”

  “It was the only o
ne I knew.” I smoothed out the corner of the newspaper.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t get seven down. . . w-o-r-m.”

  I kept my eyes steady. “How is he?”

  “Not too bad — a bit ragged — but not too bad.”

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  She flashed surprised. “Of course. He’ll be home in a few days.”

  “Can I go and see him?”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “I suppose it won’t do any harm.”

  “What are the visiting times?”

  “Oh. . .” She wafted her hand in the air. “Five o’clock, I expect.”

  “I’ll go today after work.”

  “You do that,” she said, turning towards the stairs. “Oh, and Edith.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll have my tea in bed.”

  “You’re late.”

  “My father had a heart attack.”

  “What!”

  “Yesterday afternoon. He’s in hospital. But he’s alright. Vivian says.”

  Jean came out from behind the counter and pulled my coat back up onto my shoulders. “Edith, go! You shouldn’t have come in, get yourself to the hospital now.”

  “I’ll go later,” I said, peeling off my coat again, “He’s alright, really.”

  Jean laid her hand on my arm. “You don’t want to go there, do you?”

  “I. . .”

  “It’s the stink, isn’t it? Gets right up your nose, all that bleach and those rancid old mops lying about. I’m the same.”

  “I suppose so. . . .”

  “You’re not working on the till today.” She steered me towards the back of the shop. “I want you to relax, just run the duster over those bottles, I’ll deal with Mavis when she gets here, it’s complaining day, remember.”

  As someone briefly in charge of me, Jean was in her element. She deflected customers if they veered in my direction, and asked me fifty, no, a hundred times, ‘you alright?’ She presented me with a biscuit barely half an hour into the morning and when eleven o’clock came around, she placed a bone china cup that I had never seen before ceremoniously on the table in front of me.

  “Edith, don’t worry, it’s a good hospital,” Jean said. “My mum passed away there, oh — I mean, she was in good hands when her time came.”