Walled Garden

by Catherine Dunne

  Beth made her way downstairs, then along the narrow passageway beside the dining-room. The bulb was blown so she felt carefully, with familiar feet, for the two steps which led down to the level of the kitchen. Switching on the light after the darkness of the hallway was like an electric shock. The kitchen looked suddenly floodlit. The red floor tiles, the scrubbed pine table, the press-doors which her mother had lovingly beeswaxed once a year, every year, just before Christmas. All of this was familiar to Beth. But it was familiar now in a different way. It was almost as though someone had reconstructed the kitchen to conform to her memory. It was a copy, not the real thing. Its core was missing. Beth realized with a shock, that never, not even once that she could remember, had she been in this house without her mother’s central presence in this room, at this table. She had a sudden, vivid image of a greying head bent over the Singer sewing-machine, competent hands easing yards and yards of fabric under the shiny foot, producing perfectly straight and even lines of stitching every time. An aproned figure sat with her back to the dresser, peeling and chopping vegetables, the old cracked baking-bowl full of salted water set in front of her. Her absence gave the kitchen an eerie stillness, quite unlike the reposeful silence of the bedroom upstairs, which now claimed her.

  Beth plugged in the kettle, looking out at the straggly, blackened grass. The big muddy field behind their home had long ago been transformed into a cluster of houses, each one with its own tiny front garden. The streetlights now cast long shadows over Beth’s old back garden, occasionally lighting up some corner as the glow was filtered through the swaying branches. She remembered her dad planting a line of spindly new trees near the solid oaks which had been there since his childhood, and way before. He’d told her they’d grow tall, reaching even higher, in time, than the stone walls of his sheltered garden. He’d been troubled by all the new housebuilding on his tranquil territory, upset by the intrusion of unwanted neighbours. But that, he’d told Beth, is life.

  A gust of sudden wind threw a shaft of streetlight onto the big apple tree, now gnarled and ugly in its winter bareness. Beth could only ever remember it as full and leafy, part of endless childhood summers. With a bright-green jolt of memory, she saw the swing her father had made for them, the toy with the edge of danger that had kept the neighbourhood kids swarming all over them one July, begging for a go. She had wanted to charge them a penny, she remembered, instinctively understanding the value of novelty. Her mother had been adamant that she should do no such thing. It was the first of many battles they had had over that swing. Beth had been cross that she had had to wait her turn. It wasn’t fair. It was their swing, in their garden. Why did they have to share it and wait in line, like the other kids?

  ‘You’re a selfish little girl, Elizabeth Keating. Why can’t you be more like James?’

  God, if she’d had a penny for every time she’d heard that, growing up. It was a wonder she didn’t hate James’s guts.

  Beth searched in the press beside the sink for the old wooden tray her dad had made.

  ‘You can have my go, Sis. They’ll all go home for tea soon and then we can have it to ourselves.’

  James, pleading, ever the peacemaker. Even as a very small child, she had known when to stop, when to surrender. His generosity had been irresistible. On the few occasions when she did persist, it was James who, unaccountably, ended up in trouble.

  ‘Stop giving in to her, James. She has to learn how to share, to be patient.’

  The kettle clicked off. Beth saw that the windowpane had become clouded by steam. It was cold in here. Shivering, she turned to the painted dresser in the corner where her mother always kept an array of old china. She had hardly ever thrown anything out: she’d believed that most things could be mended. Still there, on the second shelf beside the yellow one that she used every day, was the old willow-patterned teapot. Its glaze was cracked and spidery. Beth lifted it and shook it gently. It had been broken and jigsawed back together many times. There was no sound. She smiled to herself.

  It had always been known as ‘The Bank’. Into this, her father had put his wages on a Thursday evening, an unopened envelope. Her mother would divide the notes and coins into different piles, handing her father one of them, the smallest, for himself. On a Wednesday night, she would lift The Bank and shake it. Sometimes there was no sound at all; more often, there was the chinking of coin.

  ‘Only a rattle left, Jack,’ she would laugh. ‘Time to go again!’

  Beth poured boiling water onto the tea leaves. Her mother had never believed in tea-bags. She put the milk-jug and the two china cups and saucers onto the tray. Mugs were not suitable for tea, her mother had sniffed, on more than one occasion in the past when Beth had come to visit. You had to drink tea out of bone china. Beth’s eyes were drawn to the wall behind the kettle, where dozens of little yellow reminders were stuck to the tiles. ‘Set alarm’, ‘Lock downstairs doors and windows’, ‘Water plants’, she read, in her mother’s familiar, distinctive handwriting. Beth smiled. She was in the habit of leaving such notes to herself, too.

  She pulled the woollen cosy over the teapot, and went in search of sugar. James still took it; or perhaps Olive had won that battle, too. There were a couple of packets of Jacob’s Mikado, James’s favourite biscuits, in the tin; a chocolate cake was still in its cellophane wrapper. Beth grinned when she saw them. Evidently, the war was still in progress.

  She lifted the tray carefully, waiting for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark hallway again. Must get a bulb tomorrow. Must get something to make a meal, too. James’s idea of a full fridge and hers were quite different. And she didn’t want to survive on chocolate cake.

  Slowly, she went up the stairs, feeling as though she had already been back for a long time.

  *

  After two cups of tea, Beth felt suddenly alert, all her earlier tiredness replaced by a surge of energy which made her feel she could stay up all night. She now wanted to; she was almost impatient to resume the silent conversation which had drawn her close, closer than ever before to the mother who was now listening to her presence with undivided attention. She turned to face James. They hadn’t spoken in quite some time, each content to watch and wait in the flickering silence.

  ‘I’ll stay with her for tonight. You must be exhausted.’

  James was finishing his second slice of cake. It was a little while before he answered. Beth noticed that he was having difficulty in stifling a yawn.

  ‘It’s funny, you know – before you came this evening, I hadn’t even felt tired, not once. Now that you’re here, I can’t keep my eyes open.’

  She smiled at him.

  ‘You’re off duty, James. We’ll take it in shifts tomorrow; for now, she’s all mine. Go on to bed.’

  ‘Are you really sure?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  He smiled at the childish echo. But still, he didn’t move. Beth prodded him again, understanding his need to be reassured.

  ‘I’m quite happy to stay, James, honestly. I’ll call you if she gets distressed.’

  Looking less reluctant now, he stood up.

  ‘You’ll also call me if you get distressed – deal?’

  ‘Deal. Now go on, it’s almost one o’clock. Get a good night’s sleep.’

  James kissed her on the cheek. After he left, Beth renewed the night-light on the dressing table, and lit an extra one on the bedside locker. It gave her pleasure to perform these little tasks, as though the ritual of light-making could somehow increase her mother’s comfort. Shadows danced on the walls until the flames settled. Her mother murmured and moved a little, her hands shifting. Beth stood up at once and leaned over her. In the pale, yellow light, she could see how dry and cracked the old woman’s lips were. There must be lip-balm somewhere.

  She did a quick mental check on the contents of her make-up bag. She had left home in such numb confusion that she could no longer remember what she had packed and what she had left behind. Anyway, she didn’t wan
t to leave this room, not even for a minute. This was her night, her responsibility. She wasn’t going to let anyone down.

  ‘It’s all right, Mam, I’ll find something here; your poor lips look very dry.’

  Beth laid her hand on her mother’s forehead, glad to repeat James’s gesture, to learn from him. She bent down to the bedside locker and pulled at the wooden door. To her surprise, it wouldn’t give. She tugged harder. Pulling the night-light towards her, she peered at the doorframe, moving the light above and below the little ornate handle. A shadow confirmed it; the door was locked. Beth sat back on her heels, puzzled.

  ‘What are you doing? You are not to go poking around where you have no business!’

  Guiltily, a little girl sat on the floor, legs tucked under her, treasures arrayed all around her. It had been like finding her way into Aladdin’s cave. A gold locket wrapped in a red velvet bag, a plum-coloured lipstick in a shiny black case; a silver mirror that made your face huge, or smaller, depending on which side you used. A small, round bottle with a stopper that made a glassy sound when you pulled it out, and a delicious smell filled the room.

  Caught red-handed.

  ‘Those are my private things, and I’ll thank you not to go where you’re not wanted.’

  Her mother’s mouth was a tight, angry line as her hands swept the child’s treasures off the wooden floor. Beth wondered why her mother didn’t wear the lovely plum-coloured lipstick, or dab the delicious perfume on her wrists, or behind her ears, as she had seen other mothers do.

  ‘Now go downstairs and play. James is waiting for you.’

  Beth felt the pins and needles starting from her uncomfortable position on the floor. Was it ever since that day that her mother had begun to lock away everything that was precious to her? She tried hard to remember what age she had been. Younger than six, or older than six? It was important to know. If she’d been older than six, then her dad was already dead and such private memories should not have been disturbed. Her mother would have been right to be angry.

  But if she had been younger than that, and just a little girl playing among her mother’s things? Beth stood up, rubbing her right foot vigorously.

  There was a sudden movement from the bed. Instantly, Beth leaned over, taking her mother’s hand.

  ‘It’s all right, Mam, I’m here.’

  The eyes flickered open, focusing suddenly on Beth. There was a slight, but distinct, pressure from her hand.

  ‘Let her,’ she whispered, the undamaged side of her mouth moving urgently.

  Beth felt the first stirrings of panic. She was raving. Let who do what?

  ‘Of course I will. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Let her,’ she whispered again, and this time Beth saw some of the old energy in her eyes, in the expression that suddenly lit up half her face.

  ‘Don’t worry. I will. It’s all under control, I promise you.’

  Beth held her hand close, smiling down at her. She knew that her voice had acquired conviction, authority. Her mother would respond to that.

  As quickly as the wakefulness had begun, it slipped away. But at least contact had been made. Alice had allowed herself to be reassured by her daughter. Beth felt suddenly happy at the thought, felt that she could do whatever was asked of her now.

  The puzzle was, who was the ‘her’ and what was Beth to allow her to do? Maybe it was nothing at all, just the incoherent ramblings of a dying woman. But her eyes had been clear and direct. Maybe there was a clue somewhere in the room, she just had to find it. Beth knelt down again beside the locker and pulled harder on the handle. There was still no give. She looked around her. Where would someone hide a key? Where would she hide it? Her eyes lit on the jewellery box on the dressing table. James had given her mother that, years ago, for Christmas. Mahogany, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; he had bought it and restored it because it was the same age as the house.

  Beth lifted the hinged wooden lid and carefully took out the red velvet-covered tray. Underneath, there was a tangle of glass beads, old necklaces, a silver brooch or two. Beth moved them about, as though trailing her hand through water. Suddenly, she felt a small shock of recognition. There it was, the brass key. Now that she saw it, she remembered it again, remembered the abrupt way her mother had used it that day long ago, placing it when she had finished into the pocket of her apron.

  ‘Now go downstairs and play. James is waiting for you.’

  Beth fitted the key into the lock, moving the brass escutcheon out of the way. The door yielded at once. She put her hand inside, involuntarily glancing up at the bed. If she were caught in the act again . . . Her hand grasped at something large and silky. She pulled it out, into the dim light. A make-up bag. The one that she, Beth, had given her for her seventieth birthday. Purple silk, shot through with gold. Her mother had had a dress like that, once. Beth had thought that the memory would please her. And it had: she had written at once, warmly, saying how much she liked it. Beth had been very surprised. It was the first time in several years that her mother had written to her with such affection.

  She pulled the plaited drawstrings apart. Perhaps she would find the lip-balm here, or Vaseline, or her mother’s cure-all – a tin of Ayrton’s pink ointment. It had been a permanent feature of her childhood, the ready answer to wasp-stings, skinned knees and, occasionally, sunburn. Her mother’s response to every physical crisis had been to reach for the pink ointment. But there was nothing like that here. Instead, tied primly with Christmas-cake ribbon, were two packets of fat, white envelopes.

  Beth cautiously took out the first parcel. In her mother’s copperplate script, the word ‘James’ was written in thick, black ink. Beth’s mouth went dry and she experienced the familiar falling-down-inside sensation of disappointment. She turned over the second parcel, telling herself to expect nothing, wanting to find something.

  In the same confident handwriting, ‘Elizabeth’ leapt out at her. She knew it; she knew she’d felt their conversation begin the minute she had sat by the bed and taken the thin hand in hers. Let her. Of course, that was what she had meant. Nothing to do with permission. It was the letters she had wanted to signal.

  Carefully, she replaced James’s parcel in the silk bag, pulled the drawstrings tight, and replaced the bag in the locker. She turned the key in the lock once more and put it back in the jewellery box. Then she sat by the bed and stroked her mother’s hand.

  ‘I’ve found them, Mam. I’ve found the letters. You can rest now. I have them.’

  There was no movement. Beth leaned forward, willing the next breath to be taken, holding her own in fear. The pink bed-jacket rose and fell, almost imperceptibly. Beth sat back again, filled with a sense of urgency.

  She pulled the first envelope out from behind the ribbon. She was careful not to disturb their order. Her hands had begun to tremble slightly. She wondered if it was a delayed reaction from the incident with the cement lorry.

  She retied the ribbon carefully. If she knew her mother at all, their order would be important. She moved the bedside light closer to her and opened the first envelope.

  TWO

  The Green Tricycle

  ALICE CLOSED THE front door behind her and stood for a moment in the hall. Shafts of July sunlight pierced the stained-glass panels, making crazily-coloured patterns on the wooden floor. She watched as the streams of light were filled with dust motes, dancing giddily around each other.

  She hung up her light summer jacket on the hall-stand. She opened her handbag and took out a comb, patting her hair into place. She noticed that even the touch of barely-pink lipstick had feathered around the edges of her lips, making her mouth look, if anything, older than its years. She wouldn’t bother touching it up again. Recently, she had begun to see old women wearing make-up as somewhat pathetic. The first time she’d felt that way had been quite a shock: she had never before thought of herself as old. Elderly, yes, getting on, no spring chicken – but never as finally, irrevocably – old. The
garish blur of colour on eyes and lips, the heavy powdering over the facial cracks, had begun to embarrass her; she’d begun to find such blue and red notes of defiance sadly off-key. Today, in particular, she had been assaulted by the messy outlines of lips and eyes which had seemed to her to be everywhere – leafing through magazines in the hospital waiting room, queuing up for coffee, standing at the bus stop. Such a lot of waiting.

  Alice leaned closer to the mirror, as though her eyes were drawn by something else, something she hadn’t seen before. She peered at her reflection for a moment, looking straight and deep into clear-blue eyes that returned her steady gaze. Was there a difference to her face now that could be seen by others? Would she have to avert her eyes even from strangers on the street? Abruptly, she pulled away from the mirror, turning her back on it. The silence of the house surrounded her. She could have gone to James’s, of course, but a stronger instinct had brought her home.

  She snapped her handbag shut and placed it on the hall-stand. Then she walked down the passageway to the kitchen. She wouldn’t think about anything, just for the moment. Put the kettle on first; everything else could wait. Alice stood at the kitchen window, waiting for the water to boil. Looking out at the back garden, with its ivy and creeper-clad stone walls, always soothed her. The shrubs, most of which Jack had planted years and years ago, stood out in curious relief, their shape and colour heightened by the intense summer-green of the grass. Over the years, she had been careful to replace those that hadn’t thrived with members of the same flowering family – Jack’s eye for shape and colour, she thought, could never be equalled. Keeping to his plan for the rambling old walled garden had been almost like keeping in touch. Today, Alice had the strangest sensation that she was only now seeing this garden, in all its familiarity, for the first time.