by Judy Astley
‘It’s not a date?’ Greg said. ‘Ah, now I’m disappointed. And I got all dressed up for you too.’
‘Don’t tease me!’ She whacked him on the arm, realizing at the same time it wasn’t the wisest thing to do to a man who was about to change gear. She really must learn to think.
‘Who’s teasing? This is my very best old hoodie. And also, it may lack the usual clichés of romance but the Tesco’s car park has its charms. Those recycling bins make a stunning silhouette against the night sky. And it is such a beautiful evening. See, the magic lights!’ He pointed to the vividly lit sign over the Tesco 24-hour garage and sighed, thoroughly overdoing the drama as he turned the car off the road and into the car park, which was deserted apart from a few vehicles dotted around the edges and someone in a Mini with L-plates practising parallel parking.
‘Need to trust to luck a bit here,’ he told her, crossing to the farthest corner where there were sheltering trees. ‘There’ll definitely be CCTV, but I reckon it won’t be pointing at the bit we’re heading for. They’re not going to be wasting footage on a scruffy little patch of neglected ground by the valet car wash, now are they? It’s not exactly in brick-lobbing distance of the main doors.’
He pulled up at the back of the little car-wash marquee and they both climbed out, Viola wondering if she should have brought a scarf to tie round her face, looter-style. ‘The trick is,’ Greg was saying, ‘to keep the car behind us so we’re pretty much hidden from view.’
‘I hope we are.’ Viola suddenly felt a bit unsure. ‘I really don’t want to spend any more time being interviewed by that vile detective. Do you ever get challenged when you’re doing this?’
‘I haven’t been so far. I think people generally steer clear of men digging holes in the ground late at night. Apart from you, that is.’
‘Yes, well – it’s not as if I knew you were there. I’d have run a mile if I had. But there’s always a first time, though …’
He got closer to her, took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Hey, we can abort the whole mission if you’d prefer. I can take you straight home or we could rush to the pub before it shuts if you’d rather not do this. I thought … you know, just a laugh …’
Leaving now would certainly be the sensible option. Playing safe, taking the adult, no-risk course, just as Viola had promised herself she would do for the rest of her days so as to avoid havoc and chaos. But that didn’t exactly go with her determination to accept every invitation on offer and get her life back. So here she was – and she could feel it as an almost physical euphoric rush – actually for once knowing that excited flicker of really enjoying herself. It was as if backing out now would mean she’d never let herself have any silly, spontaneous fun ever again. She could picture herself months later in the spring, coming here to shop and spotting the rogue bed of flowers that would remind her of this night. Something good, something positive for once.
‘No, it’s fine – I really want to.’ She reached back into the car for her bag. ‘See? I’ve got my trowel all ready to go. What are we planting?’
She pulled a scrunchie out of her pocket and crammed her hair back into a ponytail, not caring how messy it looked but wanting to be able to see what she was doing without stray tendrils trailing in her eyes. Greg was leaning on the car bonnet, smiling at her and watching. ‘Hey, it suits you like that. Shows off your cheekbones.’
‘Oh – thank you. It’s probably the Croydon-facelift effect, hauling all the loose skin back really tightly.’
He reached across and smoothed a finger down her cheek. ‘Come on, learn to take a compliment, why don’t you? And if you’re embarrassed by it, you can return the favour and make us even.’
‘Oh – OK. You’ve got, um … quite nice … er … eyes? Aaagh!’ she laughed. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’
‘Totally.’ He nudged her gently in the ribs with his trowel. ‘And it’s so fantastically easy! Come on, let’s get on with the planting. It’s way too early to be putting in tulips really, because too much heat once they’re in the ground isn’t good for them, but this is a shady little patch so we’ll plant them deep and risk it. I’m sure the plants I put out in the wild know they’ve got to make a bit of a special effort to thrive, so we’ll let them take their chance against the dreaded tulip fire. Perks of the trade – I was given a whopping big free-sample bag of those parrot ones, pink tinged with green.’ He opened the back of the Land Rover and pulled out a small sack of bulbs and a garden fork.
‘Oh, I love those frilly tulips; they’re completely mad-looking. Like regular ones but dressed up in really fancy frocks. But aren’t they wasted on a tatty old bit of supermarket ground?’
‘I don’t think so at all,’ he said. ‘I mean, you might think I’m just sweating the small stuff, if you like, but an unexpected random flash of beauty in this sad suburban wilderness will gladden a lot of hearts, even for a few seconds. Isn’t it worth it for that?’
Viola felt that hers was gladdened already. Greg’s committed belief in his mission almost made her want to cry. How come some people could be so damn nice?
He looked down at the sack of bulbs. ‘I spend all my working days renting live plants out to be used as fake scenery, then bringing them all back again, a lot of them damaged because they’re just there to be functional and no one’s bothered to take care of them. And then when I drive through the areas the powers that be have allowed to rot with neglect, places that collect nothing but filthy litter and nobody cares, sometimes I just want to dig the real thing in and make a bit of a difference,’ he said, stabbing the fork into the ground and beginning to turn over the earth.
‘Ah, that’s such a lovely thought.’ Viola was touched by his admission.
‘Is it?’ He turned and grinned at her. ‘I thought it sounded vomit-inducingly worthy, myself. But this kind of thing is a worldwide movement. You should Google guerrilla gardening and have a look. My personal buzz comes when I drive through the area and see strange little subversive plots of greenery that I’ve been responsible for. Gives me a silly, secret tingle.’
‘You’re a kind of Banksy with a spade, then?’
‘I completely am. Here, I’ve turned this patch over; now you can start making the holes.’ He stopped forking and handed her his dibber. ‘Put them in at around four inches deep and only about the same apart; there’s nothing worse than sparse tulips. We’re going for the de luxe massed version, like you would if you put them in a big pot. They probably won’t come back the year after. In fact, if I remember, and if they’re still here, we could come back and lift them after they’ve flowered.’
Viola set to work as he’d directed, getting completely absorbed in what she was doing and feeling exhilarated by the now-cooling night breeze and the shared adventure. She and Greg knelt on the well-dug earth and planted the bulbs together, working silently and fast. The scent of fresh earth made her forget all about the madly incongruous location. It was only when they’d nearly finished and she heard a dog snuffling at the car wheels and saw a beam of feeble torchlight weaving about that she remembered that they were in a highly public spot. Greg didn’t seem to have noticed so she reached out and took hold of his wrist, giving it a warning shake.
‘Someone’s behind the car,’ she whispered.
A short, stout man wearing a shiny football shirt and a hand-knitted beanie hat, with a fat Labrador on a lead, was peering in through the Land Rover’s open back door.
‘Looking for something?’ Greg stood up and asked politely. The man jumped back, looking nervous and a bit furtive.
‘Er … no. Sorry. I just thought … I mean, you had the interior light on so I thought …’
‘Thought the battery would go flat? How kind of you to worry.’ Viola smiled, deciding that the friendly option would be the safest. The last thing she wanted was some suspicious bloke doing a concerned-citizen act and reporting them to the police. Or maybe he’d just intended to rob a bag of compost from the back.<
br />
‘Well, not exactly, I just … er. Yes. Sorry. My mistake.’ The man wouldn’t look at her but kept his gaze firmly floorwards. He tugged impatiently at his dog’s lead but the dog was taking its time, having a copious pee against the rear tyre. Viola saw Greg quickly scan the rest of the car park, then grin at the man. ‘Ah … Now I know what you thought! Jeez, is this one of the sites for it, then? If only we’d known.’ He pointed across at the far side. ‘Look, mate, there’s a Volvo estate over by the bottle bank, with its headlights on. I reckon you’ll have more luck with them.’
The man started to shuffle away, looking embarrassed. ‘Well, like I said, my mistake.’ He grunted, then turned back. ‘But if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you doing here then if you’re not … you know …?’
‘We’re gardening.’ Greg told him. ‘And no, that’s not a euphemism. Goodnight!’
The man frowned. ‘Gardening? At this time? Oh, I get it. A wind-up.’ And he stomped off crossly, pulling the reluctant dog after him.
‘What on earth was that all about? And this place is known for what, exactly?’ Viola asked as soon as he was far enough out of earshot. Every last tulip bulb was planted, and Greg was treading the ground to make it look less freshly dug and to dissuade neighbouring cats from taking advantage of soft earth.
‘Dogging!’ he laughed. ‘Poor bastard didn’t know where to look once he realized his mistake.’
‘Dogging? Oh, yuck! And he thought … we were … um, at it?’
‘Yep! He was all geared up for a bit of lecherous watching. Interior light on, you see. Apparently it’s a sign – and before you ask, that’s just info picked up along life’s way. I definitely don’t know from personal experience. Poor bastard!’ He laughed. ‘Talk about looking disappointed.’
‘That’s gross!’ Viola squinted through the dark in the direction of the far side of the car park. A couple of cars did have their lights on. If she hadn’t been told this, she’d have assumed their occupants were reading a map or choosing a CD track or something equally innocent.
Greg stowed the fork in the back of the Land Rover, then smiled at her. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be my choice for an evening’s entertainment, but each to their own. And you have to admire the fact that he did actually have a dog. Attention to detail, you see.’ He slammed the back door shut. ‘Shall we go now, or did you want to check out the, er … players?’ He nodded in the direction of the lit cars.
‘No! I mean, yes, let’s go!’ Viola clambered into the car and pulled her scrunchie off her hair, shaking it loose around her face. She could feel she was blushing. This wasn’t a conversation she’d ever expected to have, certainly not with Greg. Well, not with anyone. The stuff you learn …
‘Excellent – let’s leave them to it and get out of here. Some people do have very strange pastimes, don’t they?’ he said, starting the car and heading out towards the road.
‘You’re so right. But they’d probably say the same about us,’ Viola replied, looking back at the neat patch of ground where no one would suspect that months from now there would be a stunning display of exuberantly frilled tulips. That she and Greg were the only ones who knew they were there made a special bond between them, she thought.
‘Would you like to come in for a drink when we get back or … do you have to get home for … er … anything?’ she asked.
He stopped at a red light and looked at her, his face serious for once. For a moment she felt quite nervous. What was he going to say?
‘There is no “anything”. I already told you I’m divorced, Viola, if that’s what’s bugging you. My only connection with Mickey is a family one. And the business, obviously.’
‘Oh, right. But it’s OK, I only wondered. Sort of idly, the way you do, because it doesn’t matter either way, does it? It’s just you’ve not really said anything about yourself. I don’t even know where you live. Not that I need to know.’ She was waffling. Was the evening going to be a total ruin now? It had been such fun. Appalled, she realized she could almost cry, but mustn’t. How pathetic would that look? But even if she did, it wouldn’t be about Greg. It was just that for once an outing seemed to have gone right and been something she could really enjoy, without all the past stuff getting so much as the tiniest look-in.
‘I don’t know much about you either,’ he said. ‘I like it that we are a pair of pretty much blank pages, don’t you?’
‘Well – yes, maybe, I suppose so.’ That told her. He might as well have said, ‘No more questions.’ The lights changed and Greg crunched the Land Rover into reluctant gear.
‘And yes, please, thanks for the invitation, I’d love a drink,’ he said, which rather surprised her. She’d imagined he’d now want to drop her at the gate and screech off fast into the night. ‘But first I have to pick something up on the way – it’s only a teeny detour. Is that OK? Do you have to get home for … anything?’
‘No, I don’t and yes, it’s fine.’ Viola could hear her voice sounding flat and small.
They drove a mile or two further, over the river bridge and on towards a row of shops. At the corner, Greg turned off into an alleyway at the back of the parade where there was a delivery road and bounced the car over a series of pits and ruts, avoiding carelessly placed rows of wheelie bins.
‘The back of the police station is just up here. This is the bit where they keep the patrol cars,’ he said, switching off the main headlight beam and squinting into the darkness. He slowed down and stopped the car in the small goods yard at the back of the M&S food store.
‘Not the place I’d choose to hang out, to be honest,’ she whispered.
‘It’s OK, we won’t be caught. There’s just something I need to get. Stay here a sec.’ And before she could ask any more, Greg had got out of the car and crossed the yard, vanishing into the darkness. Viola closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest, suddenly feeling incredibly sleepy. It must be close to midnight, she realized, feeling both her body and mind relaxing and drifting off.
‘Look at these!’ Viola jumped as her door was flung open. Greg was waving two enormous cucumbers at her. ‘Harvest!’ he said, pushing them into her hands. ‘They’re a bit overgrown, hazard of absentee farming, but you can have these if you want. If you like them, that is; a lot of people don’t.’
‘Oh, but I do – thanks!’ She looked nervously at the shuttered back door of Marks & Spencer. ‘You didn’t … No, you wouldn’t. Even you wouldn’t break into M&S just to nick a couple of cucumbers.’
He was climbing back into the car now and starting the engine. ‘No, even I wouldn’t,’ he told her with mock solemnity. ‘I’ve got a patch of them growing over there in front of the wall. It’s nice and sunny and they get plenty of water because the security bloke is a mate of mine and he shares the crop. There are chillies too, but they’re not ready yet.’
‘You’re growing vegetables out here? Why don’t you get an allotment like anyone else?’
‘Why? There’re plenty of discarded patches of land in every town, ripe for the planting. The people’s plots.’
‘Don’t people just find the stuff and take it?’
‘Yeah. That’s OK.’
She laughed. ‘You’re a bit … I don’t know, something between ecologist and communist.’
‘In a good way, I hope. And anyone with a little time and energy can do it. Why hand over all the money to the Man when you can grow your own food?’
‘I’ve only ever grown a few herbs and some lettuce. I must try harder,’ she said.
He turned and looked at her. ‘Sorry, you’re tired, aren’t you? I should have taken you straight home. We didn’t need to stop here really, I was just showing off. Being a bloke.’
‘That’s all right. You can be a bloke, it’s allowed.’ She settled back against the headrest and closed her eyes again. ‘But yes, I am tired. Not too tired to give you coffee or a glass of wine back at mine, though.’
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ Greg said, s
peeding up as the Land Rover finally lurched out of the potholed alleyway on to the main road. ‘Especially as this time your mama won’t be on the doorstep, waving a rolling pin at me and shouting the odds about your honour.’
‘I’m all grown up and left home now,’ she told him. ‘Being at hers was only ever temporary.’ She sensed him turn to look at her and waited for him to ask her why … but he didn’t. It was quite a relief, to be so anonymous. How long would that last?
Greg didn’t pick through her CDs or comment on her bookshelves that contained the complete works of Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens alongside bright-jacketed rows of contemporary writers. Instead, as she was in the kitchen making them both mugs of tea, he had a good look at a framed black and white photo of Viola, Marco and the then-baby Rachel which hung on the wall, all of them smiling and looking as if nothing could ever be better in their world. She glanced at the photo – that had felt so true at the time.
‘Am I allowed to ask?’ He pointed at Marco.
‘Yes. That’s Marco. My daughter Rachel’s father. Divorced but friends.’ So here it came, trickles of information-sharing.
‘Best way to be,’ he said, nodding. ‘I didn’t know you had a baby.’
‘Baby! Not these days. She’s a teenager now, staying over with a friend for the night.’ There was a short silent moment while she – and possibly he – took in that this meant that whatever happened – or didn’t happen – now, they weren’t going to be interrupted. As she reached into the fridge for the milk, Viola contemplated the mad idea of actually sleeping with Greg. As she wasn’t going to have an emotional entanglement ever again, it would have to be on a sex-only basis, none of that getting-involved, complicated stuff. The idea seemed brutal, cold and absolutely not her.
