The Insistent Garden

by Rosie Chard

  “I’m not worried.”

  Jean tipped her head. “Something’s bothering you though, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  She laid her hand on my forehead; I smelt cigarette smoke on her sleeve. “You’re not coming down with anything are you, your cheeks are flushed.”

  I undid the top button of my sweater. “I’m alright. But I wish my mother was here.”

  “You’ve never said that before.”

  I looked down at the linoleum, white circles showed where table legs had rubbed the same spot. “No.” I looked back up. “Jean, I wish I knew how she died. They never told me. Nobody would ever tell me.”

  Jean’s chair creaked. “It’s probably not the best time but. . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, Frank Slammer, you know the butcher up on Sunderland Road, he was in the other day, gave me a roasting over the new price of butter, he’s a bit of a gossip as you know and. . .”

  That pause, it had no end. Every muscle in my body tightened, ready to fight, or ready to flee.

  “I’m not sure how it came up but. . .”

  “Please Jean, just say it.”

  “He remembers the inquest; it was reported in the newspaper.”

  “What inquest?”

  “Well, there was an inquest after your mother died.”

  “Jean, what is an inquest?”

  “It’s. . . erm. . . it’s when they try and find out the cause of death then put it in the newspaper.”

  The newspaper. Everyone in town had a newspaper. They lined their dustbins with them; they covered up cracks in their floorboards; they used them to wrap fish. “What was the cause?” I said.

  “It was an open verdict, Edith.” She pulled the tea cosy snugly down over the pot. “Which means they didn’t find out the complete cause, but there was some information that partly explained what happened to her.”

  “What information?”

  “When she died,” Jean tweaked the cozy again, “she had poison in her blood.”

  Digitalis purpurea, Taxus baccata, Helleborus foetidus.

  Archie’s plant book seemed heavier than usual when I pulled it up onto my bed and the pages were noisy, crackling out sound as I turned to the chapter on poisonous plants. The list was long. Few plants seemed to escape the cyanide running through their veins or glycosides waiting silently in their roots. The beautiful buttercup, the delicate delphinium, the innocently nodding daffodils, all so treacherous, all hiding a secret beneath layers of deceitful skin.

  Poison in her blood. I shoved the book onto the floor; the spine cracked and a page fell quietly onto the carpet.

  74

  I’d never been inside a hospital before. Half the town seemed to be in the waiting room: rows of people packed miserably into seats, the smell of something boiled in the air. I squeezed past two boys playing battleships on school notebooks, sat down on the remaining empty chair, and surveyed the room without moving my head. Everyone around me seemed to have a secret. An elderly man whispered in his companion’s ear, a woman shushed her children, and a fidgety boy opposite me rolled and unrolled his prescription into a sweaty, unreadable tube. I tried to concentrate on the nurse sitting behind the desk at the end of the room but I couldn’t suppress the thought: this was where my mother spent her final hours.

  Finally the small hand on the clock jerked onto two and everyone in the waiting room stood up as one. At first I followed the throng, happy to be guided by the line of backs, the pairs of buttocks rippling from left to right, then I branched out alone, swerving to avoid a patch of freshly mopped floor as I struggled to decipher the direction signs nailed to the walls. The corridor narrowed, dog-legged without warning, and then emptied me into a gloomy holding area dominated by a booth at one end. As I waited for the nurse to find my father’s name on her list I looked up at the fluorescent tubing lining the ceiling. This is what you would see if you were being pushed along on a gurney.

  My father looked older when I entered his room. His neck, habitually encased in a collar and tie, was exposed and I could see wrinkles resting on his collarbone that I’d never noticed before. The hospital gown, baby blue and loose-collared, added to his air of resignation and I felt an urge to pull the sheet up to his chin. But I didn’t. I just placed a packet of shortbread on the table and sat down on the chair beside his bed. “How are you feeling?”

  He looked out of the window, purple bags beneath his eyes. “Is the wall alright?” he asked.

  “The wall’s alright.” I replied.

  “And the dog?”

  “He’s alright, I took him out this morning. How are you. . . feeling?”

  “I don’t like it here.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  He looked at me solidly. “Not anymore.”

  I glanced round the room. There was nothing to straighten, nothing to do. I noticed the remains of a meal on a plate beside his bed. The skin of a sprout still held its shape. “Did you enjoy your lunch?”

  “Not much.”

  I stroked the arm of my chair, a coarse flannel that bristled beneath my fingers. “I found something in the kitchen after you went to the hospital.”

  “What?” he said, dully.

  Hairs popped up on the arm of the chair. “It was a. . .”

  He looked up. “Yes? What did you find?”

  I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the object lying inside.

  “What have you got in there?”

  I pulled out the seed packet and held it towards him. “I found this under the kitchen table. It was stuck in a gap in the wood.”

  He stared at the packet but did not speak.

  “It looks very old,” I said.

  He stared at me, a slow gaze that seemed to stroke my face. “I’d like to have that,” he said at last.

  “Here?” I said, placing it down on the bedside table.

  “No, here,” he replied, touching his pillow.

  I placed the packet down beside his head and sat back. “Do you know when you’re coming home?”

  He shifted in his bed. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. “I should be getting back.”

  “Yes.”

  I stood up and moved away from his bed but something made me turn round as I reached the door. He was watching me. “You sure the wall’s alright?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  I reached for the door handle.

  “And you?”

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Are you alright?”

  I turned round and looked at the seed packet lying on the pillow beside his head. “Yes, I’m alright.”

  The living room sat quietly. I picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “Dotty, it’s me. . . I’m alright, just a bit tired. . . I’ll tell you when I see you. . . Yes. . . I’m free to meet you. . . I’m sure I’m alright. . . Yes, something has happened. . . I’ll tell you when I see you. . . soon. . . I’m sure I’m alright. . . yes, I’ll call you. . . yes. . . yes. . . I promise. . . yes. . . goodbye.”

  34 Ethrington Street

  Billingsford,

  Northamptonshire

  September 28th 1969

  Dear Gill,

  I know I’m bad — leaving you dangling — I’ll get straight back to where I was. The inquest said that Edith’s mum had eaten some sort of poison all those years ago, but nobody knows what. You don’t think there’s something in the water do you? Mine looks a bit rusty sometimes. Could have been one of Frank’s pork faggots for all I know — he does cut corners a bit sometimes. I put my foot right in it. Seems like no-one will tell her how her mum died, but I had to say what I’d heard, didn’t I? She went all ghostly looking and swayed a bit. I’m doing my best to keep an eye on her but she wouldn’t hear of me walking her home or anything. She doesn’t want me inside the house. I glimpsed flowery wallpaper in the hall once but that’s it. So on top of everything her Dad’s had a heart atta
ck. He’s still in hospital so I suppose she’s at the mercy of Vivian. Do you think she’s going to be alright?

  But life goes on. Had another young lad going through the greeting cards today — they always stick out a mile the way they pretend to be looking at the car mags when they’re really getting something for their girlfriends. Looked like he was learning one of those cheesy lines the way his lips were moving. Now he’s going to send a girl’s heart fluttering. I’ve never seen him before but he walked back up the hill as if he was familiar with the way the pavement gets rough outside the house on the corner.

  And that woman, that one with all the fags, she keeps coming in and buying stuff she doesn’t want and leaving grease from her forehead all over my window. What is it about my front window, Gill? Whenever I’ve looked out lately the most interesting thing I’ve seen is Mrs. Brogue beating the dust out of her doormat and Jarvis Jones bending over to fix that rust patch in his exhaust.

  I’m getting edgy, what with all these people looking over their shoulders. Perhaps I should start looking over mine, see if anything’s there.

  Jean

  75

  Life goes on. Archie liked to say that, usually after he’d pulled a mealy carrot out of the soil or when he’d lost an entire packet of seeds to sparrows. I still folded up the laundry. I still rushed Vivian’s plate to the table before it got cold. Yet underneath, deeply embedded, was the thought of him.

  I didn’t see Alden. In spite of lingering in the garden two nights in a row, scanning the face of his house, I saw no sign of him. Vivian’s presence, meanwhile, grew. It seeped into every room of the house like a damp patch beneath a leaking radiator. The ‘hideous’ bathroom mat was thrown into the dustbin, the knives and forks found at a jumble sale years earlier were taken to Oxfam for further recycling and the net curtains covering the living room windows were replaced by a new set, cut from cloth of such a high dernier that most of the remaining light was cut from the room.

  It was a drizzly September morning, three days after my father’s heart attack, when I left the house on an errand. I glimpsed the blue tree on the horizon, then strode on down the hill, my head bent against the rain. The pavement shone with puddles and I did not notice a woman beside me until she fell into step.

  “Hello, Edith.”

  Nancy Pit looked strange out of her uniform, half-dressed. “Oh. . . hello.”

  “How are you?” She glanced at my forehead.

  “Fine, thank you. Are you coming to see my aunt?”

  “No, I was coming to see you.”

  Something turned in my stomach. “Me?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  I halted. “But I don’t really know you.”

  “You don’t need to know me.”

  I met her gaze. “What do you want?”

  “Edith.” She breathed loudly. “Your aunt and I, we used to be friends and. . . once, many years ago, she came to the nursery. . . and. . .”

  “And?”

  Nancy Pit widened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Just air. Then she burst into tears, great drops pouring out from every part of her eyes, but before I could respond she snatched a handkerchief to her nose and rushed down the street. I watched the receding figure for a long time.

  Why did Alden not contact me? Each passing hour cranked up the ache in my belly and I began to wonder if I had dreamt the night I’d spent with him. Did I really go to the house next door and sleep in a stranger’s bed? But he wasn’t a stranger. Not anymore. I wandered out into the garden and sat down on my boulder. As I looked up at the high wall I noticed the yellow brick. Yellow, yet newly edged with white. I walked towards it, slowly, as if to inspect a joint of loose mortar. A piece of paper flew up like a trapped bird when I eased out the brick. I caught it in my hand, and then unfolded the corners. A single sentence, creased into a diagonal, had been written in neat print.

  It is at the edge of a petal that love waits.

  It’s just small boys that throw stones at windows, isn’t it? The gravel in the pocket, the arched feet, ready to run. The moon watched me that night and an apple-scented breeze brushed my hair as I crouched in the corner of Alden’s front garden, feeling the ground, searching for the right stone. But stones are stupid. They drop back two inches from their target; they fly in arcs. Finally a large pebble tapped on Alden’s bedroom window with the firmness of an encyclopedia salesman then fell silently back into the dark.

  Several seconds stumbled into each other before a face appeared at the window. No going back.

  Alden wore his skin bare on his chest when he opened the front door and the flush of recently broken sleep hung on his cheeks. I opened my mouth to say something but Alden spoke first. “Edith, are you alright?”

  “I need to see you,” I said.

  His hand flitted up to his collarbone. “Come inside.”

  76

  It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Vivian appeared in the garden next day, announcing her arrival with a yawn and an instruction to work on the wall.

  I glanced up; the sky was blue. “I don’t want to work on the wall anymore.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I. . . don’t want to —”

  It came suddenly. Vivian’s hand whipped up from her side and ringed fingers sliced across my face, “You little idiot! Don’t you realize?”

  I stepped back then steadied myself. “Realize. . .” I suppressed the shake in my voice “. . . what?”

  “He wants to get us.” Vivian’s chin jutted forward; a drop of saliva landed on my cheek. “He’ll do anything. He’s waiting. He’s sly.” She glanced up. “He’s probably watching now.”

  I glanced up too and held in a smile.

  “Are you listening to me?” Her whole body seemed to be about her mouth and I stared at the line where red lipstick met pink inner lips.

  A movement beyond her head caught my eye.

  “Edith, are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  She gripped my shoulders and put her face close to mine. “I don’t like the feel of you.”

  Before I could respond, she began to shout. “I’m going to collect your father now. I expect to see you working when I get back. And don’t forget what I said. He’s probably watching. Right now.”

  I pressed my handkerchief to the side of my face as I watched her go in the back door; I could still feel the hard pinch of her hands on my shoulders.

  The front gate was still swinging on its hinges when Alden arrived at the house a minute later.

  “I saw what she did!” he said, barging into the hall. Grinder tore passed my legs — a blur of fur — and licked Alden’s hand.

  “You can’t come in here!” I cried.

  He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Edith, it’s alright. Now, it’s alright.”

  The softness of his touch belied the ferocity of his expression; his eyes were wide: he breathed fast. He began to pace, striding across the hall in heavy silence.

  “Alden,” I placed my hand on his arm. “Please, slow down.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We must do something to stop this,” he said, moving in the direction of the kitchen.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He turned. “I don’t know, but Edith, this must stop.”

  He wrenched open the back door and strode down the garden. I ran behind, terrified. He halted at the base of the high wall. “Edith, where’s the ladder?”

  “I. . .”

  “It’s alright, I can see it. Can you help me?”

  The ladder creaked, its feet gouged a groove in the soil and Alden began to climb. I gripped the rails and stared at the back of his ankles, overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of his heels.

  “Have you got a hammer?” he yelled, cranking his head down towards me.

  “I’m not sure, I. . .”

  His ankles were moving; his feet back on the g
round and he scanned the garden like a hungry animal. “That’ll do.” He grabbed the handle of the spade and clambered back up.

  Brick chippings showered down; a speck lodged in my eye but I did not let go of the ladder, which shuddered with every whack of the spade. A groan fell down from Alden’s mouth; I watched the triangle of sweat that glued his shirt to his back as he lunged from side to side.

  Suddenly it stopped; a bird braved a tiny chirrup. Alden climbed down the ladder slowly and placed the spade against the wall. Then he stepped towards me; I could feel heat coming off his hand, which rested on my shoulder. “This has to stop,” he said.

  Of course it had to stop. Hadn’t I always known that the wall would never touch the sky? I fingered the pulse in my neck and looked at Alden. But he was distracted, gazing up at his attic. Then, a new expression crept across his face. “I’m going to end this,” he said.

  “What do you — ?”

  “The attic.” He raised his hand. “There’s a door up in the attic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Edith, we can end this. Let’s go up.”

  He began to run. Up the garden, through the kitchen, into the hall and out of the front door. I ran too, ducking twigs as we squeezed through the hole in the hedge. I watched patiently while he rummaged through the contents of his pocket, happy to absorb the details of his body in motion: the shift of his collarbone, the darting movement of his fingers.

  “Got it,” he said, holding up the door key.

  I could hardly keep up as he tore up the stairs, our hands squeaking out elated terror on the turn in the banister. Nothing had changed up in the attic; the imprint remained untouched on the sofa, a stain still lined the coffee cup on the floor.

  Alden rushed at the party wall and ran his hands across its surface.

  “Edith,” he cried. “Feel!”

  I ran to his side. “Feel what?”

  “Feel the door! There’s a door between the houses. My mother told me.”

  Our hands moved in circles; they touched then swirled apart as we felt for a trace of the door in the wall. But we couldn’t find it. Alden walked over to a cupboard in the corner of the room where he rummaged noisily; a paint tin was thrown; a sleeping bag flew through the air, curling up on the floor like a dead body. Finally, back muscles taut, he bent down and pulled out a huge, steel-headed sledge hammer.