The Memories That Make Us

by Vanessa Carnevale

  ‘But what about the tea? I just took a tray of scones out of the oven, too,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d tried so hard to follow the recipe, and had even made a practice batch last night. Flynn had come past in the late afternoon to help me work out how to fire up the Rayburn, and stayed a while to help polish off one too many scones (once I finally managed to make a batch that wasn’t too sticky, too rubbery, or too dry) without cream, because I’d managed to curdle it, so we made butter, instead. Neither of us spoke about what happened during our jog the other morning, which is a relief because I’ve been trying to push our kiss out of my mind, something that is turning out to be almost impossible.

  ‘The tea can wait. If you don’t tend to the garden, the garden won’t be able to look after you,’ says Tilly.

  I return from the barn with the wheelbarrow and a pair of gloves and snips for the both of us.

  ‘Now, you see these?’ She runs her hand over the dried-out brown stems of a plant. ‘You know what they are?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You had a field full of them last time I was up here, so you should know.’ She waves a finger at me. ‘We’re going to have to work on refreshing your memory. These here are peonies. And big billowy peonies, come spring time, are going to be your biggest seller. All the brides want them, and all the people seeking a little more joy want them, too.’

  I finish pulling on my gloves. ‘I can’t work on the field, Tilly. And I won’t be selling anything this spring, I’m afraid. I think I’ll stick to working on the front garden here, and maybe I’ll plant a cutting garden out the back. A small one … and then, once spring is over …’ My voice trails off. ‘I’ll probably have to return to Melbourne.’ Face Blake. Deal with the ramifications of calling off a ‘wedding that was supposed to be’.

  Tilly furrows her brow. ‘Nonsense,’ she scoffs, pointing a crooked finger at me. ‘The flowers need you as much as you need them. And the sooner you see it, the less time we have to worry about you talking nonsense.’

  Before I can say a word, she reaches up and takes a snip from my hand, and deftly trims the dry growth from the peony bush. ‘See the eyes here?’ she says, pointing to a number of pink-coloured buds protruding from the earth. ‘They should be covered. You’re lucky we’ve had a mild winter, but you need to get onto that right away.’ She moves on to the next plant, and explains how peonies only have a short blooming window; a three-week flush of pink and white blooms before it’s gone. ‘When I was last here, your mother had over two thousand plants. Luckily, you don’t need to pull the tubers up every year like the dahlias. Once every three will suffice, and then you can divide and replant. They hate wet feet, those dahlias. Pretty little things, but higher maintenance. Keeping the possums from munching through them is only the beginning.’

  ‘She had dahlias, too?’

  ‘They were her favourites, after the sweet peas, that is. She would plant sweet peas at every cost. Worked out how to get the sturdiest stems and the maximum yield. Ranunculus too. She had a soft spot for the double blooms, but she was always messing around with the frilled-edge tulips, as well. At the end of the day your mama loved them all.’

  ‘I wish I could remember her.’

  ‘You want to get close to your mother, you’ll want to get close to the flowers. Because everything you feel when you’re with the flowers, is everything your mother encouraged you to feel about the flowers, about life, and about the way you see the world. You understand?’

  ‘I think so,’ I reply.

  ‘Good. So, the sooner you make a start, the better.’

  ‘It’s just that after the accident, I find it hard to think ahead, to plan, to work things out … and besides, it would be impossible to do such a physically demanding job alone. The plots in the field are far too big for me to manage.’

  Tilly’s eyes widen as she lets out a puff of breath. ‘I guess it all depends on how much you want it.’

  She prunes back the last peony bush in the front garden and grasps the fence in an effort to help herself up. I rush to her side to help her. ‘Now, I’m ready for you to show me the fields,’ she says, wiping her hands on her apron, looking towards the gate.

  Tilly and I pace up to the fields and stop at the first one, a clean slate of expansive paddock. Tilly makes a suggestion that it could be the perfect place for me to try planting some gladioli. ‘You’ve plenty of space, so why not?’ she says, her eyes brightening. ‘And you know what? While you’re at it, some California poppies, and maybe even some zinnias.’ I follow her lead as she makes her way further ahead to a patch of overgrowth. ‘The dahlia field,’ she says, placing her hands on her hips. Her eyes scan the area as if she’s seeing something that lies beyond what can be seen. ‘Too late to dig them up, but hopefully, with any luck, you’ll get a decent crop in summer. You won’t want to leave them to overwinter next year, though. If you can get a hold of several hundred more tubers, you’d be able to fit more dahlias over there,’ she says, pointing to one side of the field. ‘You’d usually want to plant them in November for a nice summer crop, but if you stagger your planting windows and get some new ones tucked into the ground this spring, your plot will be continually flushing.’ She shields her eyes from the sun as she gazes out towards the adjoining field. ‘Now, see over there,’ she says, motioning to the side of the field that’s exposed. ‘You’ll need a wind barrier for the sweet peas there.’

  ‘Do you really think I can do this, Tilly?’

  She turns to face me. ‘’Course you can. You’re an Ashcroft. Why on earth couldn’t you?’

  ‘It’s a huge job.’

  ‘’Course it is. All those roses along the border? They’re the most sought-after David Austins I know of. You’ll have brides knocking each other over by your front gate for arrangements. At the rear of the back field where the bushland starts is going to give you all the filler foliage you’d ever need. Eucalyptus blossoms, tea tree, emu grass—it’s a forager’s dream.’

  ‘I can’t do arrangements.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she says. ‘You’re already doing them. Just like your mother did. She would be down the end of the driveway every Sunday morning, filling her pockets with enough money to buy you everything you ever needed. This place belongs to you, Gracie, and I don’t want to see it miserable like this, do you hear me? Because them flowers need a place to grow. But more than that, there are people waiting for them. And if you don’t get a move on, you’ll miss the planting windows altogether.’

  She leaves me to contemplate things in the middle of the field as she shuffles past me on her way down the path towards the cottage, as if she still owns it. I chew my lip, considering what she’s telling me. As well-meaning as Tilly is, this is an impossible job for one person.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, get moving, we’ve plenty more work to do once we get inside,’ she calls.

  I can’t help chuckling to myself as I follow her lead back to the cottage.

  Inside, Tilly orders me to fetch a notebook and pen. And as she reels off planting instructions, I take notes, urging her to slow down. She repeats things, at first with a sense of frustration, and then when I share the pages of my almost illegible scrawl with her, she takes a pen and makes her own notes for me, jotting down details about what kind of care each flower needs, and exactly how many weeks I have to get everything done. She motions to the books on gardening I have sprawled over the kitchen table. ‘Once you get through those, come back and see me.’

  She stands up and points a finger at me. ‘Spring’s on her way, and she wants you to know it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, feeling the hope in my chest expand.

  ‘You need to fill up the bird feeder out front,’ she adds.

  Tilly’s right. I really need to buy a bag of birdseed. But first, I need to run some numbers.

  EIGHTEEN

  The worst part about worry is trying to find a solution to a problem when the problem feels too big for an easy solution
. After a restless sleep, where I spent most of the night listening to the howling wind, my thoughts tangling around me, there’s a knock on the door. Bleary-eyed, I open it. I may have recently showered, but I haven’t yet managed a coffee.

  I open the door expecting to greet Flynn, but it’s Charlie from the chestnut stand. He adjusts his braces and tips his cap. ‘Morning, Gracie.’

  ‘Good morning, Charlie,’ I say, smiling. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, appearing a little nervous.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’

  He nods and steps inside, taking off his hat as he walks through the door.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’ I ask.

  ‘Tea would be great,’ he replies. He follows me into the kitchen, where I put on the kettle and start brewing a batch of tea. For myself, I make a coffee.

  ‘Not working today?’ I ask, studying his face. He looks a little more worn out than usual as he fiddles with a button hole of his woollen coat.

  ‘No, not today. My wife, Maggie, she’s a tad unwell these days and has been needing me a bit more than usual. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Your friend Tilly—the other day she passed by my stand.’

  My ears prick up.

  Charlie taps his hat against his palm. ‘Well, she mentioned you were going to be growing some flowers here—that you were thinking of getting the farm up and going again.’

  ‘She did?’ I ask, surprised. I carry the teapot over to the table. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Just one.’ Charlie pulls out a chair and sits down. ‘She mentioned you’d need help with things.’

  I spoon the sugar into his cup before replying. ‘That’s right, I haven’t had a chance to work out that side of things yet, though,’ I mumble.

  ‘I should also tell you that I think I have your first customer.’

  ‘Oh?’ I reply, intrigued.

  ‘And I’m also looking for a job,’ he adds.

  ‘A job?’ I study Charlie’s face as he takes a sip of tea.

  ‘I’m quite handy on a farm, and now that chestnut season’s over …’

  I take a few seconds to consider what Charlie’s asking me before setting down my mug.

  ‘Charlie, I would love to offer you a job, only I can’t. Besides, I wouldn’t have funds to pay you. At least not right away. Things are a little tight at the moment.’

  ‘If I’m honest with you, I don’t really need the money, Gracie. I work to keep my ticker in shape—to pass the time. Maggie has her good days and her bad days, so work— especially the outdoor kind—gives me a bit of an outlet, if you know what I mean. Gets a little lonely, otherwise.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ I want to ask about Charlie’s wife but hold back, letting him speak.

  ‘So, I was thinking … for Maggie—she’d love to spend some time here, once the flowers are in bloom. There’s nothing Maggie loves more than fresh flowers. Now, I know it’s not much, but we’d personally guarantee you an arrangement a week and I know lots of people in town who’d buy from you. Tilly can’t meet the demand for fresh flowers as it is, and locally grown blooms are so hard to find. Even Tilly struggles to supply them. Hers usually are imported, and you can spot them from a mile away—they almost never have a perfume. And what’s the point in having a rose with no scent, am I right?’

  ‘You’re right—but they’re still beautiful to look at,’ I reply.

  ‘And sometimes a flower is more than its petals.’ He pauses, and sets down his cup. ‘So, what do you say, Gracie? Will you let me help you out here on the farm?’

  I still feel hesitant. ‘I don’t want to take advantage of you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. You’d be helping me. And I’d be helping you.’

  ‘Let me think about it?’ I relax into my chair, considering Charlie’s proposal. Could it really work? ‘Tilly put you up to it all, though, didn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe a little. She said she thought it could be good for me—to spend some time outdoors helping you out. I’ve always enjoyed a spot of gardening,’ he muses.

  ‘Tell me about Maggie,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘She’s unwell?’

  Charlie drains the tea from his cup before clumsily setting it back on its saucer. ‘Maggie and I have been married for over thirty years, now. After a certain point, I suppose you lose count. She used to run one of the local tearooms. Until she started getting sick, that is. At first, she started forgetting the customers’ names—even the regulars. Then their orders. She’d mix things up. Initially, I thought it was stress. So, we took a holiday—we went on a river cruise from Paris to Monte Carlo, but when that didn’t help, I knew something was undeniably wrong. Days with Maggie seem longer now, but at the same time, they’re over far too quickly.’ He looks out the window, past my shoulder, and sighs. ‘She doesn’t remember a whole lot—only bits and pieces, really. What I really wish is that she would remember the time we had together, especially in those early years. There’s no pain quite like the pain of someone you love not being able to remember your name.’

  A beat of silence passes while I contemplate these words. ‘Alzheimer’s?’ I ask finally.

  Charlie’s chocolate-brown eyes are now damp. ‘I started losing her three years and twenty-six days ago. It was gradual. Some days are better than others. Some days she remembers me. Other days she wouldn’t have the foggiest.’

  ‘It must be very hard for you,’ I acknowledge. I plonk my mug on the table. I can’t seem to take another sip, my thoughts turning to Blake and how he lost me so suddenly.

  ‘I’d do anything to have her remember me, us, our life together,’ murmurs Charlie. ‘But there isn’t much I can do. That’s where I think your farm could help. Maggie used to spend a lot of time visiting the Botanical Gardens with her mother when she was younger and she loved tending to the garden.’

  ‘So, the flowers help?’ I ask, the pitch of my voice uneven.

  ‘They won’t bring her memory back, but they might bring her a dash of happiness, and we both need a little more of that in our lives.’

  I reach for Charlie’s hand and give it a squeeze. He places his palm over mine and blinks at me, his eyes filled with hope. ‘I know it hurts terribly, Charlie, and that she never wanted it to be this way. She didn’t have a choice.’ Something uncomfortable lodges itself in my throat. I can’t help thinking about my accident and how hard everything must be for Blake right now.

  Charlie sucks in a breath and clears his throat before speaking. ‘I grieve for her every day and yet … she’s still alive,’ he says, as he stares blankly out the window.

  ‘I understand,’ I whisper.

  I release his hand and reach across the table to the stack of gardening books and pull out my notebook. I jot down Maggie’s name, draw a line underneath it, and write down the names of flowers I’d like to give especially to her. And then I gaze out the window to the expansive fields outside, and think to myself that I’ve never felt closer to my mother, or that thing called purpose, than I do right now. ‘I’d like to meet her,’ I say, digging my hand into the pocket of my jeans. ‘I have something for her,’ I reply, rolling a seed between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Something I think she might like. Something I know will bring her a bit of joy.’

  After Charlie and I say our goodbyes, I tie an apron around my waist and head out to the barn, where I fill my wagon with a few gardening supplies before wheeling it up the incline to the fields. Here, I fasten a tool belt around my middle, stretch open a glove, look up to the sky, and pray that somehow my time here in Summerhill will show me who I am and who I’m meant to be. That somehow, enough spring buds might poke their heads out of the soil and give me a way to find whatever it is I’m looking for.

  It will take me days to rid the seemingly endless rows of peonies of weeds. I continue working on them until after midday, skipping lunch entirely. My back aches, my legs feel as if they can’t hold me upright for much longer, and the knees of my jeans are completely soaked through
and caked with mud. Eventually, I pause for a drink of water, and when I assess my progress in the field, squinting in the sun, I take a literal step back. A memory filters into my consciousness.

  It was spring, and the peony field was sprinkled with masses of lush green bushes, the surrounding fields were awash with colour—shoulder-high sweet peas climbing up trellises, pink-and-white ruffles basking in the afternoon light, and knee-high rows of tulips of every colour imaginable. My skin felt deliciously warm, baking gently under the sun. The delicate breeze carried with it the scent of grass and flowers and a life filled with endless blessings.

  I was with my mum, among the rows of peony plants. ‘You can’t expect them to bloom in their first year,’ she said, her delicate fingers reaching out to inspect the round bud. Tiny ants crawled over it and onto her hand. She’d told me they helped the buds unfurl. The ants were a good thing— they too shared in the magnificent gift Mother Nature afforded us.

  ‘Why not?’

  A smile crept over her face. ‘Because they need time to get good roots, find their centres, know that they’ll be loved and cared for. In a year or two, they’ll know that they were meant to be here all along, just like us. And that’s when they’ll truly blossom—once they know exactly why they’re here.’

  I laughed, snipped a stem at the base, and tickled her nose with it. ‘So, this one must be special. It really wanted to be with us,’ I said, inhaling the opulent scent.

  ‘Who do you think needs it, Gracie? Who might be waiting for it? Who needs it more than you?’ she said, affectionately touching my nose. Her green eyes sparkled back at me.

  ‘Tilly,’ I whispered, as something in my chest expanded. It was a feeling I had felt before, when my mother gazed at me in admiration, or when I nestled my body against hers in bed at night. But this was different. This was bigger. This was everything my mother gave me, and it was in that moment that I knew I could give this to someone else. Through the flowers, my mother had just taught me everything I needed to know about love and compassion. Mum smiled at me, as if we were sharing a secret, a knowing, a truth that nobody else around us might have understood in the same way.