by Tara Heavey
‘What is it?’
‘My yellow digger.’
‘Hold on, Seth.’
The box was exhumed and the digger resurrected. Liam replaced the digger with a lesser Dinky car he had in his pocket. Then the time capsule was reburied once and for all.
Now it was time for the procession.
Uri was Master of Ceremonies. He narrated the movement of the children as they progressed in an undulating line from the gate to the sukkoh.
‘These are the children of St Mary’s. We’re very grateful for all their help with the Autumn Party. You will see that some of them are carrying lanterns. They have made these themselves.’ The lanterns were jam jars of various shapes and sizes, with little bits of coloured tissue paper stuck on each in an ad hoc fashion. Every lantern housed a night light, which glowed colourfully in the gathering twilight.
‘The other children are holding an etrog fruit in one hand.’ These looked like large lemons. Uri had been carefully cultivating them in the far reaches of the garden. Now Aoife knew why. ‘In their other hands, the children are holding bunches of leaves known as lulav. These are made up of palm, for uprightness, willow, for humility, and myrtle, for faithfulness. Together they symbolize brotherhood and peace. This procession is part of the tradition of the Jewish harvest festival. It serves as a reminder of the beauty of life. Speaking of beauty, the girl wearing the crown is my granddaughter Kathy. This is known in Germany as the “harvest crown” or “Erntekrone”. It’s made of ears of grain, flowers and fruit.’
One by one, the children reached the sukkoh. Those with lulav placed it on the roof. Those with lanterns hung them from the eaves. Kathy kept her crown on. This might or might not have been part of the plan but, from the expression on her face, it would have to be prised off her.
There was silence while the children returned to their places in the crowd, alongside friends and parents.
‘Now we have a presentation to make,’ said Uri.
This was news to Aoife. She wondered what it could be.
The crowds parted to allow through Seth and Lance. Between them, they carried a bench. It was clearly homemade, rustic-looking. The seat was a log sawn in half – a large one at that. The remainder was constructed of branches bound together with split roots. On it there was a metal plaque with writing. Aoife couldn’t make it out from where she was standing.
‘Aoife? Where’s Aoife? Can you come up here, please?’
Aoife stiffened. Those around her pushed her gently forward. As she entered the clearing, everyone started to clap. How mortifying. She stood beside Uri and he put his arm around her shoulders and turned her to face everyone.
‘You’re looking here at the woman who made this possible. This garden. This wonderful day. Through her vision. Her hard work. Her bossiness.’
There was an appreciative laugh from the audience.
‘For this, my dear Aoife, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. And, as a token of our appreciation, we hereby present you with this bench – to be located at a site of your choosing.’
Everyone clapped again.
‘It was made by Seth,’ continued Uri, ‘so it really is a labour of love.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Could you read out the inscription, please, Aoife?’
She cleared her throat: ‘ “For those we have loved and lost, that they might linger here”. It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank you all so much.’ She nodded at everyone, not trusting herself to say more.
‘The idea,’ said Uri, ‘is that we all have a special place to go to think about our loved ones who are no longer with us. Now.’ He gave her shoulder another squeeze. ‘Where do you want it?’
She pointed. ‘Over there beside the pond.’
‘Gentlemen?’
Lance and Seth carried the bench to the designated spot and Aoife was released – whereupon she ducked back into the crowd and hid herself as best she could.
But Uri hadn’t finished. ‘If I might have your attention for a few more moments.’ He bowed his head and was quiet for so long that people began to glance at one another and fidget. Then he lifted his face and spoke. ‘My friends. This day fills me with great joy. It is the culmination of nine months of hard labour. You could say that today signifies the birth of this garden. This creation. Because, really, she is still only in her infancy. She has many years of growth yet to come. And it is up to us to make sure she fulfils her potential. This generation. And generations to come. May we cherish and sustain her, just as she sustains us.’ He bowed his head again, for some time. People weren’t sure if he had finished or not. An uncertain round of applause broke out, then died rapidly as his voice rang out again.
‘Gardens have always been an important part of my life. This comes from my father and his father before him and who knows how many generations back? Men – and women – who worked the land and participated in her bounty. And now when I see my son working, he’s so like my own father that it hurts me,’ he put his hand up to his heart, ‘here. How proud he would have been. And of Kathy. Working on her own little flowerbed.’ Uri smiled, on the verge of tears. ‘What I’m trying to say is that gardens, nature, this garden have given me so much. They probably saved my life. My prayer is that you allow ours to save yours too.’
He walked away, so that everyone knew this time that he’d finished. The crowd clapped once more then merged in upon itself.
After that a lot of people went home, but many stayed on – reluctant to let go of such a magical day.
Seth found Uri sitting quietly on the bench. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Nice speech.’
‘Thank you.’
There were a few moments’ silence.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Never better. In fact, there was something I wanted to ask you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Would you come to Germany with me? You and your brother?’
This wasn’t what Seth had been expecting.
‘Well – yes. Of course I will. And Aaron too, I’m sure. But what brought this on? You’ve never wanted to go back before.’
‘I know. Perhaps you’ll understand when you get to my age. The need to say goodbye.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Dad. You’ve got years in you yet.’
‘Maybe so. But who knows? I’d like to show you and Aaron where I grew up. The river I used to fish and swim in. Perhaps visit my grandparents’ house down south.’
‘I’d love that.’
‘And I’d like to visit the camps. The one where your grandfather was shot. And the one where your grandmother and aunt were murdered.’
‘I didn’t think you’d found that out for sure.’
‘It’s the only possible explanation. There’s no record of them. They must have been brought straight to the gas chambers the day we arrived. Those people weren’t registered.’
Seth nodded and didn’t say anything.
‘If you think it’s too morbid, you don’t have to come.’
‘No. Not at all. It’s important to you. To all of us. So I can show Kathy when she’s older.’
‘Yes.’
They were quiet for a while.
‘You never know,’ said Uri, ‘we might find some long-lost relatives. I couldn’t trace any of them after the war, but so many were displaced at the time. It’s worth looking into, I think.’
‘It’s a great idea. I’ll start researching flights tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Seth. Now I’d like to sample some of your poteen.’
‘Only if I can have a glass of your elderberry wine.’
‘Deal.’
The alcohol was produced. Under its influence, the playing of the band took on a new, more frenzied dimension. And with most of the children gone home for tea, the adults began to dance, heavily improvised versions of ‘The Siege of Ennis’ and ‘The Walls of Limerick’. Then a young man crossed two brooms on the ground and danced gloriously around them, his hands
hanging loose at his sides, his thigh muscles admired collectively by all the women present. A very old man got two kitchen chairs and held on to the backs of them, one on his left and one on his right. Between them, he performed the best jig anyone had ever seen. It even inspired Aoife to take out her tin whistle and tootle for a while.
Many songs were sung that night. Emigrant songs by people who had never left the oul’ sod in the first place. Rebel songs by those without a rebellious bone in their bodies. Love songs.
‘This was a brilliant idea,’ said Emily. ‘We should have a party to celebrate the change of every season.’
‘You can organize it next time,’ said Aoife.
‘We could do the winter solstice. And May Day – we could have a maypole!’
‘Where are you going to get the morris dancers?’
‘We could do it.’
‘They’re meant to be men.’
‘We could be the Morrisettes!’
‘Hey, Mrs P, tell me something,’ said Seth.
‘For pity’s sake, will you stop calling me that. Call me Myrtle if you must. Anything’s better than Mrs P.’
‘Myrtle! If you didn’t murder your husband and bury him in the garden, how come you never let us dig in that little patch at the back?’
‘Because – you fool – Harriet’s mother is buried there.’
‘Thanks, Myrtle. That’s all I wanted to know.’
The party went on until the early hours. None of the neighbours complained – because all of them were there.
Afterword
Liam sleeps in his own bed now.
I sleep with Seth, the contours of his body following my own. Of course, every now and then, Liam has a bad dream and comes in to us. As does Kathy. On those occasions, we adults hang off the respective edges of our bed, childish knees and elbows digging into our spines.
Just like that, my family has doubled. At first it made me uneasy. I felt I didn’t deserve it, this miraculous second chance. But over time I learned to be grateful. And it is this gratitude that has blossomed and transformed my life.
Acknowledgements
I have many people to thank:
My editor at Penguin, Patricia Deevy. Thank you for taking me on in the first place. I’ve enjoyed your insights, your direct approach, your love of words and your unstinting dedication to all things grammatical.
Much gratitude also goes to Michael McLoughlin, Brian Walker, Cliona Lewis and Patricia McVeigh at Penguin Ireland. And to all the people, Penguins and otherwise, whom I have yet to meet, who will contribute to this book. Particularly Keith Taylor and Ellie Smith in the London office.
My agent Faith O’Grady. I have many things for which to thank you. First, your role in helping me to conceive of the idea for the book in the first place, and for the pep talk that spurred me into writing it. If it wasn’t for you, the walled garden would have been a scruffy corner plot and the deli would have been a dingy corner shop. And thanks for getting me this book deal.
Hazel Orme. Copy-editor extraordinaire. Your attention to detail is astounding.
Many moons ago, Lenny Abrahamson was kind enough to meet up with me and share valuable insight into what it means to grow up Jewish in Dublin. At last, I was able to put that knowledge to good use. Thank you.
Heartfelt thanks to Emma Delahunt, for filling me in on what ‘the young people’ wear, drink, smoke and do nowadays. Emos and Dubes. Who knew?
I am also very grateful to Emer O’Carroll, who, a long time ago, gave me valuable information about the nature of adoption in Ireland.
And thank you very much Eithne Hegarty BL for your expert legal advice.
To John and Dorothy Allen, who set me straight on Eucharistic ministers, to Neal McCormack, who told me about Tin Pan Alley, to Kay in Thomastown Library, who sourced the books on the 1950s, to the people in the Lisa Richards Agency who came up with a suitable book for Emily to read, and to the motley crew who racked their brains to help me come up with a title for this book – I thank you one and all.
To those family members, friends and neighbours who make up my inner circle, thank you for being in my world. I’d particularly like to thank both of my parents for sharing their stories about growing up in Ireland in the 1950s.
To Leo and Marianne, I love you both, you little squirts.
And to Rory, my first reader and editor. Thank you for your enthusiasm, encouragement and patience.
Finally, I would like to pay tribute to three beautiful gardens, all of which inspired me: the walled garden at Woodstock, Inistiogue, the Water Garden in Thomastown and the walled garden at Mount Juliet, Thomastown, all in South County Kilkenny. To those of you who designed, planted and care for them, I thank you all. Especially Paddy Daly of Mount Juliet.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Sowing the Seeds of Love
The Winter Garden
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
The Spring Garden
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
The Summer Garden
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Harvest
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
Afterword
Acknowledgements
