Sowing the Seeds of Love

by Tara Heavey

  ‘You’ve got a cut on your knee.’ Liam looked up at Mrs Prendergast from his knee-high vantage-point. ‘You should get your mummy to put a plaster on it.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. Now if you don’t mind…’

  ‘Yes, of course. ’Bye now.’

  The door had shut behind them before they’d even reached the top step.

  They set off for home, but Aoife couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the garden. Oblivious to Liam’s complaints, she skirted the perimeter of the wall, which was almost a perfect square and enclosed about an acre of ground. Then she came across a wrought-iron gate, tall and forbidding, black paint flaking off in lumps. It was locked tight, of course. The padlock looked as if it had been designed to keep out a marauding army, the heavy chain wrapped around itself many times.

  Regardless of passers-by, Aoife pressed her right cheek to the cold metal and swivelled her eyes as far left as they would go. She thought how comical she must look to anyone on the other side. But there was nobody on the other side. Nothing much, in fact, except dense undergrowth. And the wall, of course, which was an attractive reddish-brown, much of it scrambled with dark-green ivy. The two colours complemented one another strikingly well. As she peered inside, she was just able to detect a pattern in the planting, only discernible because the garden lay sleeping in its winter sparseness.

  There were two lines of unruly shrubs, which met in the middle at a stagnant pond. At least, she presumed there was water, but so much duckweed grew on the surface that it looked solid green.

  There was something magical – romantic – about the concept of a walled garden. Aoife had always loved them. But she hadn’t expected to find one so close to her new Dublin home. Still intact, if a little ragged around the edges. Buried treasure. She felt as if she was the first person ever to see the garden. As in really see it. Or, at least, the first person in a very long time.

  She went home. But the garden stayed with her.

  Myrtle turned the key and the padlock fell into her hand. The gate, newly installed, opened in one easy, fluid motion. Delight surged through her as she entered the garden. Everywhere there was growth, tangled and haphazard. Where one woman might have seen disorder and chaos, she saw only possibility. She smiled and twirled and was at home.

  4

  It was a week later to the day, almost to the hour.

  Mrs Prendergast’s front garden was mainly gravel, bordered by a few well-spaced, orderly, low-maintenance shrubs. The appearance of the front of the house bore no relation to the wilderness at the back. A grand flight of sombre stone steps led up to the front door, which was imposing and swirled with stained glass.

  Aoife was standing in front of it. Somehow her feet had led her to the top step where she stood, regarding the tarnished brass knocker. No bell. What had brought her to this point? This wasn’t usual behaviour for her. Maybe it was because she was starting a new life. Possibilities had awoken within her.

  ‘Can I knock, Mummy?’

  She lifted Liam up and he rapped the brass against the wood. Nothing happened. After an appropriate interval, she told him to knock again.

  Still nothing.

  ‘Shall I try again, Mummy?’

  ‘No. She can’t be in. Let’s go.’

  Feeling foolish, she descended the steps, then crossed the gravel briskly, anxious now to get out of there and put the folly behind her, convinced that Mrs Prendergast was peering out of an upstairs window, mocking her.

  But behind her the front door opened. Liam heard it too. ‘Look, Mummy, she’s in!’

  Mrs Prendergast was gazing down at them, her demeanour more forbidding, even, than Aoife remembered. She was regretting this already. But she went back up the steps until she was standing, once again, at the entrance to the house. Mrs Prendergast raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘In need of my facilities again?’

  Aoife smiled nervously. ‘We came to see how you were.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  An awkward silence ensued.

  ‘Was that it?’

  ‘Look, Mummy, a doggy.’

  A wet muzzle pushed past Mrs Prendergast’s legs, followed by a canine face, as friendly as its owner’s was not. A rotund body, a frenetic tail. The pong of elderly female dog. A golden retriever. She smiled open-mouthedly at Liam, as at a long-lost friend, her breath coming in hot, pungent waves.

  ‘What’s its name?’ Liam asked.

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Is it a boy doggy or a girl doggy?’

  ‘A girl, of course. Harriet is a girl’s name.’

  Aoife looked sternly at Mrs Prendergast. How on earth was a four-year-old boy supposed to know that? But she checked herself. Now was not the time. Instead: ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hmph.’ That was what it sounded like.

  ‘Look, Mrs Prendergast, since you’re obviously in no mood for a conversation, I’ll come straight to the point.’

  ‘So you do want something.’

  ‘It’s about your garden.’

  ‘What about it?’ Her bearing was rigid, her expression more guarded.

  ‘It must be hard for you to manage such a large area by yourself.’

  Mrs Prendergast stared at Aoife from beneath hooded lids, as if she were something she might like to squash.

  ‘What I mean is, it could be so lovely.’

  ‘What is your point, my dear?’

  Aoife guessed that ‘my dear’ was ironic.

  So preoccupied were the two women with one another that they didn’t notice Liam and Harriet inching into the hall.

  ‘I could help you with it.’

  ‘No, thank you. Harriet!’ Mrs Prendergast looked around for her dog.

  ‘What I mean is, not just you and me doing a bit of weeding. We’d get a few people together to work on it.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I was thinking I could advertise.’

  ‘Absolutely not. Harriet!’ Mrs Prendergast craned her neck past Aoife.

  ‘I think they went that way.’ Aoife indicated indoors. Mrs Prendergast turned and disappeared into a door leading off the hall. Aoife could hear Liam’s high-pitched giggles coming from inside. Should she…? She wasn’t strictly invited – she wasn’t invited at all – but if Mrs Prendergast wanted Liam out, well, Aoife was the woman for the job.

  She stepped over the threshold and stood behind Mrs Prendergast at the entrance to the room.

  Liam was hunkered on the floor beside Harriet, who was lying on her back, her nose stretched out to the ultimate. He was rubbing her belly while she rotated one of her back legs in the air as if riding half of an invisible bicycle. Aoife glanced at Mrs Prendergast. She didn’t look as stern now. And they said never to work with children or animals.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Liam lifted his head and wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Liam!’ The mortification.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Harriet. She farts a lot.’

  Liam rolled around on the floor beside the dog, his little-boy laugh full-bodied, infectious. Mrs Prendergast’s lips twitched at one corner. Aoife knew an opportunity when she saw one. ‘I really wish you’d reconsider. It could be wonderful. Imagine the garden restored to its former glory. We could grow fruit, vegetables, herbs…’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Pardon? Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I’m Aoife. Aoife Madigan. And this is Liam.’

  ‘You’re English.’ For once it wasn’t an accusation.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘London. As I –’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Used to be. Are you?’

  ‘Used to be. But I expect you know that already.’

  Aoife felt herself blush, but Mrs Prendergast didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Are you Church of England?’

  ‘No, Catholic.’

  ‘Oh. Pity. The Mothers’ Union are always looking for new blood. Like a
pack of vampires.’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Sorry? Why was she apologizing for her religion?

  ‘And I take it you have lots of gardening experience.’

  ‘Oh, yes, lots.’ Growing sunflowers in the garden in Upper Norwood when she was nine.

  ‘Anyway, I’m selling it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The garden. I’m selling it for development.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean… I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m entitled to do whatever I like with my own property.’

  ‘I know, I know. Of course you are. It just seems such a terrible shame. It could be so beautiful. I’m sure it was once.’ She looked searchingly into Mrs Prendergast’s face but found no response. Not even a flicker.

  Aoife sighed. ‘Come on, Liam.’

  Liam righted himself. ‘Please can me and my mummy have your garden?’ he asked Mrs Prendergast. ‘I want to grow her some flowers.’

  The silence was as embarrassing as it was deafening.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Aoife scooped up her son before he had a chance to say anything else and headed out of the front door. On the step, she turned to speak but the door was already closed. She felt heartbroken and didn’t know why.

  5

  She tried to put it out of her mind because, really, what was the point?

  Then one day, not so very long afterwards, she was in the Good Food Store, rooting around for something that would taste homemade but wasn’t, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She jumped. She didn’t know enough people to expect a shoulder-tap. ‘Oh. Hello, Mrs Prendergast.’

  ‘You can have the garden.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said you can have the garden. Do what you like with it, I don’t care. I’ll still own it, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Just let me know when you intend to start.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  The older woman nodded curtly and was gone.

  Aoife floated home. It was only when she got back to her kitchen that she discovered she’d forgotten her groceries.

  She had no idea why the garden meant so much to her, perhaps because it was a perfect reflection of herself, desolate, laid bare by a long, hard winter and years of neglect, pruned by harsh frosts, icy winds and months of darkness where once all was lush and green with growth and optimism. But still.

  Still.

  Just below the surface new life was waiting to push out of the darkness and into the light. Just as she had always known it to be, in a place deep inside that she’d forgotten. If she could only help it to grow again – well, it would be as if all things were possible.

  So it was in this frame of mind that she set out one blowy morning in mid-December for the Good Food Store, clasping a stiff white piece of paper folded down the middle in one sharp crease. She was relieved to see a different woman behind the counter. Girl, really. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Slight with shoulder-length dark hair. The kind of girl who absorbed the light rather than reflected it. She seemed miserable for someone who spent her working day surrounded by such glorious produce but Aoife, of all people, shouldn’t judge.

  ‘Can I put a notice up?’ Aoife gestured towards the board.

  The girl took a break from staring into space. ‘Go right ahead.’ She went back to staring.

  Aoife would have loved to know what she was looking at. She stole a thumb tack from a poster for Pilates and secured her own notice in as advantageous a position as possible. Then she stood back to read it for the fiftieth time that morning:

  Local garden in urgent need of care and attention.

  Community effort required.

  All those interested, please bring your green fingers along at 8.30 pm next Monday night, 16 December, to…

  She supplied her address. She’d even drawn a few flowers in the top right-hand corner. What a plonker. Was she really going through with this? Yes, she was. She turned away before she changed her mind again. On to more mundane matters: dinner. She checked out the minuscule vegetable department. ‘Do you have any green beans?’ She almost felt bad for dragging the girl back to a reality in which she clearly did not want to exist.

  ‘We can’t get Irish green beans. They all seem to be from Kenya so we don’t stock them any more.’

  Aoife nodded and left the shop. She tugged her woollen hat further down around her ears, as if to contain all the thoughts that were colliding inside her head. So they couldn’t get Irish-grown green beans. How interesting. She pulled on her gloves and stifled a small smile. If she didn’t know better she’d think she was happy.

  6

  It was 8.31 p.m. on the evening of 16 December. So where were they, the milling throngs? Had all the cushion-plumping, crumb-sweeping, coffee-brewing, biscuit-buying and notice-tacking been to no avail? She’d even bought a few pot plants so that she looked the part.

  The doorbell rang and her heart leaped. She rushed out of the kitchen, slowing as she neared the front door. Calm. She opened the door. A man.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’ He doffed his hat, delighting and surprising her at the same time.

  ‘Are you here about the garden?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Please come in.’

  Someone. It was someone.

  She stood aside to let him pass. He was shorter than her, neat and dapper, closely trimmed beard – dark, even though he must be over seventy.

  He took off his pristine coat, his movements deft and quick, to reveal an immaculate grey pinstriped suit. She felt messy and ungainly beside him. Too much time concentrating on her house and not enough on her hair, which was in the same ponytail she’d gathered it into that morning. She had kidded herself that the loose strands were softening tendrils. In reality, they were just straggly bits. Taking his coat, she ushered him into the sitting room.

  ‘You’re the first to arrive.’ She felt stupid and nervous, as always with small-talk. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  She thought she detected the faintest trace of an accent. She busied herself in the kitchen with the kettle, transferring biscuits on to a plate, fumbling with the wrapper, fussing about with milk and a sugar bowl – something to rely on when the evening fanned out before her in all its uncertainty.

  She carried everything into the sitting room on a large tray. The man stood up when she entered, took it from her and set it on the coffee-table.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Uri.’

  ‘Thank you, Uri. I’m Aoife. Sorry, I should have mentioned that before.’

  The doorbell. Someone else! She ran out to open it.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. It was the sad girl from the food store.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Come in. Can I take your coat?’ She led her into the sitting room. ‘I’m Aoife.’

  ‘Emily.’ The girl half smiled.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Mummy.’

  Oh, shit. Liam was still awake. Not only that, he was standing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Get back into bed.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Just someone to see Mummy.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nobody you know. Now go back to sleep.’

  ‘But I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Well, go to sleep now.’

  ‘I’m hungwy.’

  In desperation, she closed the sitting-room door on this popular ploy. Inside, Uri was pouring milk into Emily’s coffee. They looked up at her expectantly. She smiled tightly and glanced at the clock. Eight forty-five. ‘I suppose we’d better make a start.’ She settled herself in an armchair. ‘I can go over things again if someone else comes.’

  No one else did. Apart from Liam, whom Aoife could hear descending the stairs
step by step. It was only a matter of seconds before the door swung open and there he stood, resplendent in Spiderman pyjamas. His confidence deserted him as soon as his eyes alighted on the strangers and he ran to his mother and climbed on to her lap, wrapping his legs around her waist and burying his face in the soft, warm place where her neck met her shoulder. The irritation Aoife had anticipated didn’t materialize. Instead, she felt the tension melt from her body.

  ‘So. We have the opportunity to restore a walled garden,’ she began.

  ‘Really?’ Uri sat forward, face intent.

  ‘Yes. The owner has very kindly agreed to let us do what we like with it.’

  ‘Where is this garden?’

  ‘Close by. About five minutes’ walk from here?’

  ‘Have you had plans drawn up?’

  ‘Um. No. Not yet. I was waiting to see if I could generate enough interest first.’

  ‘Do you have photos?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘About an acre.’

  ‘An acre in this part of the city! It’s a wonder no one’s built an apartment block on top of it.’

  ‘Yes. The owner was thinking about selling it to a developer, but she seems to have had a change of heart.’

  ‘What do you envisage for it?’ Again, Uri asked the question. Emily had yet to speak.

  ‘I see it as a community garden. Anyone who’s interested can come and help. Try to restore it to its former glory. Flowers, vegetables, herbs, fruit trees.’

  ‘We could grow figs – vines, even.’ Uri was smiling broadly now.

  ‘I suppose we might be able to get a greenhouse.’

  He was looking at her carefully now, choosing his words. ‘Well, as you know, the temperature in a walled garden is always several degrees higher than that of a normal garden so it should be possible to grow such fruit against the walls, where the heat is retained.’

  Aoife nodded and looked at the carpet. She could feel herself blushing to her roots.

  As you know.

  She met Uri’s eye briefly. He was still looking at her and she could have kicked herself for not having done more research. She of all people.