Sowing the Seeds of Love

by Tara Heavey

  ‘Marnie,’ he said, his fury barely contained. ‘I think it’s time we left.’ He held out his hand.

  When Myrtle looked back on this moment, she saw it as a pivotal point in her history. Should she embrace Martin, embrace her future, become the Marnie she’d always longed to be? Or stay and be the Myrtle she’d always been, with her taciturn father, her submissive mother?

  She took Martin’s hand.

  Martin sped out of Woodford in his Humber Hawk, skidding around the corners of Myrtle’s estate.

  ‘Slow down!’ She held on to the dashboard in alarm.

  Thankfully, he brought the car to a shrieking halt at an old bombsite, minutes away. It was an area upon which several houses used to stand. In summer, it was lush and pink with rosebay willowherb. Now, it was stubbly and grey. Martin got out and slammed the door. Myrtle watched him uncertainly as he kicked an innocent rock several times, then picked up a large branch and beat the rock until he’d got the rage out of his system. She was about to get out when he returned and sat beside her, his breath heavy and rasping. His normally perfect quiff was askew. She could smell the Brylcreem off him. From that day on, the scent would propel her back to that moment. She was afraid to speak. Afraid of what she’d just witnessed. But in an odd way she felt even more drawn to him. His actions spoke to her of real passion.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, not looking at her. ‘I’ve been offered a big government contract.’

  ‘Oh – that’s wonderful, Martin.’

  ‘It’s in Dublin.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She felt the fear like ice water down her spine. Had she misjudged the situation back at the house? Was he leaving her? She closed her eyes, leaned back in her seat and felt an incredible rush of hatred for her father. Why did that man have to ruin everything for her?

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  ‘Marnie, you’re not hearing me. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘I want us to get married.’

  And there, in the back of that Humber Hawk, their marriage was consummated before it had even begun.

  Martin Prendergast and Myrtle Ferguson got married in Woodford Register Office on as cold and inhospitable a day as early January could muster. Myrtle stood nervously on the pavement in her ice-pink two-piece, clutching her bouquet to her breast. Martin stood beside her, his suit crisp and black, smoking a rare cigarette, which he ground out with his heel after he had peered impatiently down the street for the umpteenth time. A girl called Gladys, to whom Myrtle referred as her friend, accompanied them. The two often went dancing together, although they had seen less of each other since Martin had arrived on the scene.

  Myrtle was aware that she didn’t possess a talent for friendship. There was something about her that put other girls off. She liked to tell herself that they were jealous of her success with men, her ability to make the most of herself, but, deep in her core, she knew her lack of warmth put them off. From her father, she had inherited not just a pale blondeness but a glacial coolness. She didn’t know how to be any other way, although she longed to open up. She hoped that Martin could perform this miracle for her.

  So Gladys was the closest thing she had to a female friend, and today she was to be her witness and her bridesmaid. The two women got on tolerably well. Gladys was a bookish girl who wore thick, black-rimmed glasses. An intellectual, it never occurred to her to be jealous of Myrtle. She appreciated an intelligent person with whom she could have a decent conversation. And, besides, it was handy having someone to go dancing with. Once on the dance-floor, Gladys had no problem attracting men, thanks to her generous bosom and a surprisingly sensual dance technique. Today her bustline was hidden by a dark winter coat made of thick serge and buttoned up to her neck. Still she shivered.

  Three heads whipped around to the sound of running footsteps. It was Myrtle’s brother, Roger, adjusting his tie as he ran.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Myrtle snapped at him.

  ‘Sorry. I had to run back home to put on my suit.’

  ‘Are they…?’

  ‘Sorry, Myrtle. They’re not coming.’

  She took a deep breath and it appeared to the others that she shrank slightly. Roger looked anxiously at her. Newly eighteen, he felt a responsibility as the most senior Ferguson male present to say something, but words failed him.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Myrtle, brightly. ‘Let’s go in.’

  And so they were married. Myrtle resented the silent assumption in the registrar’s eyes that theirs was a shotgun wedding. On second thoughts, maybe it was.

  They adjourned to a nearby pub to celebrate. It was hardly the wedding that Myrtle, with her flawless taste and eye for detail, had meticulously planned since girlhood. But, she told herself repeatedly, she was Martin’s wife now and that was what really mattered.

  All day long she ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Some might have called it a gut instinct.

  That night they boarded the ferry to Dun Laoghaire. They were to have a honeymoon of sorts in the west of Ireland, during which Myrtle was to be shown off to an assortment of Martin’s relatives. She was under strict instructions to maintain the deception that they’d got married in a Catholic church. Myrtle didn’t know what she’d say if someone asked her straight out if she was a Catholic.

  It was a rough winter crossing and Myrtle was as sick as a dog. As she groaned in their cabin, Martin repaired to the bar where he commenced drinking with a motley crew of Irishmen who were returning to the Emerald Isle, the majority only on a temporary basis, to wives they scarcely knew any more and children who’d grown up so much since their last visit that they barely recognized them. The drinking was serious and heavy. Songs were sung, increasingly maudlin, as the night wore on.

  Myrtle lay tossing disconsolately in the top bunk, retching her guts up into a tin bucket. Her discontent was added to considerably by Martin’s long unexplained absence. Some wedding night this was turning out to be. Finally, the key turned clumsily and noisily in the lock and the groom materialized. Martin staggered into the cabin. At first Myrtle put down his unsteady gait to the rocking and rolling of the ship. She’d seen him with drink on him many times before and he was generally able to carry it well.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ She raised herself up on her elbow and addressed him angrily.

  Martin stood looking at her, swaying slightly. He appeared to be having difficulty focusing. It was then that she realized he was very drunk. His lip curled into a kind of snarl. Nothing like Elvis’s. ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch.’ He fell on to the lower bunk and began to snore almost instantly.

  That was the day Sputnik fell to earth, having spent exactly three months in orbit.

  32

  There was something so precious about late summer. The knowledge that the flowers would soon be gone made their beauty all the more intense in the eyes of their beholders. The sensory garden that Emily had planted now came into its own. It was as if the butterflies were having a farewell party. Every time Harriet gambolled past the buddleia, a host of tortoiseshells and painted ladies rose into the air as if the petals themselves had come to life and taken flight. The bees were in overdrive too, collecting the last of the pollen for their winter pantry. As for developments among the garden’s human inhabitants, they, too, proceeded at quite a pace.

  Following the ill-fated dinner party, Aoife had convinced Mrs Prendergast to create a range of pies to sell in the Good Food Store – first, the older woman was such a sublime cook, but also she wanted to take her mind off her errant son. Emily’s aunt jumped at the idea, as did the punters, who couldn’t get enough of ‘Mrs Prendergast’s Gourmet Pies’. Their major selling point, apart from their succulence, was the guaranteed fresh, local produce th
at went into them. Spinach and goat’s cheese was Aoife’s favourite.

  As for Aoife, she was going through a weird time. Changes were taking place at a faster rate than she could handle. Liam was starting ‘big school’ the following month and the prospect flooded her with a gamut of emotions – most of them negative. She’d made two attempts so far to purchase his uniform and each time had had to leave the store in tears. It pained her immeasurably that Michael wasn’t there to see his son take his first real steps into boyhood. And because Katie was no longer coming up behind him, this might be the only time she’d experience such a monumental step, which added to its poignancy.

  She was also in a quandary over Seth. Since the night she had rejected him on her doorstep, a polite but cool distance had opened between them. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap or even if she wanted to. As for Seth, she couldn’t work out if he had lost interest or was just biding his time. She hoped it was the latter but that might have been vanity speaking.

  Plans were under way for the harvest festival. The idea was to open the garden gate and let the public flow in. They would be given guided tours and there’d be stalls selling fruit and veg and homemade soup. Aoife was in quite a flap about it. Mrs Prendergast watched her with some amusement. ‘If you like,’ she said, ‘I could ask some of the women from the Mothers’ Union to help out.’

  ‘Really? Do you think they’d be useful?’

  ‘Well, they’re forever making jams and chutneys and doing unspeakable things with doilies. I’d imagine that this type of thing would be right up their street.’

  ‘Do you think they’d mind?’

  ‘Mind! You must be joking. That lot would sell their own children for a chance to get a look inside my house. I have to warn you, though, some of them are insufferably bossy. They’ll probably give you a pain in the neck trying to take over.’

  ‘I’d be delighted if somebody took over.’

  So it was decided.

  The sale of the garden to Uri proceeded without a hitch. Uri busied himself with building a house in the apple tree for the children and nailing up a bird box to house the robins through the winter months.

  And then one day the bombshell. It didn’t look like a bombshell. Just a harmless piece of paper. It was the words that were written on it that were so incendiary.

  ‘Can he do this?’ Aoife spoke in hushed tones to Uri. They were both watching Mrs Prendergast, who was hunched over her kitchen table, her head in her hands, a pose that was utterly at odds with her usual composure.

  ‘According to my solicitor, yes, he can. Doesn’t mean he’ll succeed, of course, but he can slow things down.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Aoife, in even more hushed tones. It wasn’t for her to call Lance names, what with his poor wounded mother sitting just a few feet away. Lance was accusing Uri of duress – of forcing Mrs Prendergast to sell the garden to him. It was almost laughable: the idea of anyone forcing Mrs Prendergast to do anything. But it must have felt to her like the ultimate betrayal. Lance had literally turned around and bitten the hand that had fed him since he was an infant. He must need the money very badly. Still…

  Uri looked furious, in that particular way he had, his face concentrated and fiercely blank. He muttered something in a language Aoife didn’t understand, then sat down beside Mrs Prendergast and put his arm around her shoulders, his face close to hers. Aoife left them to it.

  She walked out into the garden straight into Seth. Typical.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she said. At least they had something constructive to discuss.

  ‘Yes. What a bollocks.’

  ‘As usual, Seth, your descriptive powers are spot on.’

  She didn’t like the way Seth was smiling at her. In her opinion, he wasn’t trying hard enough to pretend that everything was normal between them. She was trying her hardest. ‘I hope Mrs P can cope with this.’ She spoke rapidly, not wanting to leave any gaps for him to fill with words she didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Of course she’ll cope. She’s a tough old bird.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Yeah. You can bet she’s been through a lot worse than this in her life. You can see it in her. She’s like one of those ladies the British Empire was founded upon.’

  She smiled in spite of herself and hoped he was right.

  ‘Have you seen my dad?’

  ‘He’s in there with her now. Which reminds me. Where exactly is he originally from?’

  ‘You mean you’ve never asked him?’

  ‘I’ve wanted to but I get the impression he doesn’t like talking about his past.’

  ‘He’s German. Anyway, I’d better leave them alone if she’s upset.’

  ‘They’re getting close, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they are.’

  ‘Are they “an item”, do you think?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Would it bother you if they were?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘You know, because he’s your dad and she’s not your mum.’

  ‘If it makes him happy then I’m happy. A person can’t mourn for ever.’

  This was said very pointedly and it annoyed Aoife that she had walked straight into it. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, feeling his eyes bore into her back as she walked away.

  It wasn’t just his mother who was affected by Lance’s legal action. The whole future of the garden was once again in jeopardy. Aoife and Uri had been in the middle of their autumn bulb selection. What now?

  ‘It’ll never work, what he’s doing,’ said Uri. ‘No jury will believe it.’

  But Aoife noticed that his enthusiasm for their proposed planting extravaganza had waned considerably. Maybe they’d all lost a bit of their zest.

  But the plants didn’t know what was going on so they did what they always did and kept on growing. There was a renewed poignancy to their loveliness. The grass was that little bit greener, the colours of the flowers magnified, their scent more intense. Surely this was a change in the perception of those who beheld them and not a trick of nature.

  33

  Myrtle found the west of Ireland rugged. It reminded her somehow of Martin’s dark features and it seemed fitting that he’d been nurtured by this land.

  They arrived in the town a little before eleven on a Thursday morning. The main street was surprisingly dense with people and cattle. ‘Fair day,’ said Martin. ‘I forgot all about it.’ He seemed pleased, though. They drove slowly behind a herd of cows, their bony haunches swinging from side to side, surprisingly high. City girl Myrtle had never seen an udder so close, so heavily veined, so pendulous. Although the car windows were shut tight, the stench of excrement was vile. Martin revved at the last of the herd to scare the beast out of the way.

  ‘Stop!’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  The town’s women were out in force, bearing buckets of water and stiff brushes to scrub the dung off their walls. The few men who were left were scattered around in small groups. Conversations stopped and heads turned as the Humber Hawk advanced slowly along the street. Several men nodded in Martin’s direction and he raised his fingers from the steering-wheel in salute.

  The houses thinned out and the countryside deepened. The rain fell, slanting, and Martin was quiet.

  ‘How far now?’

  ‘Not far.’

  He hadn’t mentioned the incident on the boat. Neither had she. She doubted he remembered. She wished she didn’t.

  The land was bad here, Martin had told her, the soil thin. The fields were small and uneven, bounded by low stone walls. Here and there the murky green was interrupted by the black and white of a cow. Apart from that, nothing much. Hedgerows and stones. A lowering grey sky.

  ‘Bleak, isn’t it?’ Martin was looking at her, his eyes searching.

  She chose her words carefully. ‘I expect it’s nice in the summertime.’

  He looked straight ahead, his expression gloomy. ‘I’m never coming back.’ />
  Before long and without indicating, Martin turned abruptly down a narrow lane. The going got considerably bumpier as the car careered over numerous potholes. It wasn’t much more than a dirt track with a rough line of grass growing up the centre. And then a long, low, whitewashed cottage loomed before them.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it’s not thatched.’ She was amazed at how disappointed she was.

  ‘I bought my mother a new slate roof two summers ago.’ His pride was evident.

  He stopped the car and they both got out and stretched. The rain felt like icy pinpricks on Myrtle’s face and hands. As Martin got their bags out of the boot, the front door to the cottage – a half-door like the one in her geography book – opened inwards. An old woman came out. Myrtle, feeling suddenly shy, stayed by the car and let Martin greet her first. She was tiny, the top of her head only reaching Martin’s chest. She had to raise her arms almost vertically to clasp his face in her hands. She must be Martin’s mother, although it seemed improbable that she could ever have borne such a hulk of a man, never mind his five siblings. After a brief exchange, Martin beckoned to her. She walked slowly towards them.

  ‘Mam,’ he said, ‘this is Marnie.’

  It wasn’t until much later that it dawned on her he’d introduced her as Marnie. That was his name for her. She was his now.

  As Myrtle drew close she tried not to look shocked at the woman’s ancient appearance. She couldn’t have been more than a decade older than her own mother, but the difference in years between them looked more like thirty. The lines on her face were many and deep, and her smile showed that several of her teeth were missing. But it was warm and genuine and made Myrtle feel welcome. She was heartened and relieved as she entered the cottage, and realized how pathetically she wanted this woman to like her.

  It wasn’t much warmer inside than out, despite the peat fire. A couple of chairs were huddled around it.