Everything in the Garden

by Jo Verity

  Over lunch she passed on the gossip to Tom. ‘Don’t you think you should go and see if he’s OK?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s nothing to do with us.’

  Wasn’t it? What if Sally had spotted what was going on? Of course nothing was going on but might it not look as though it were? What if Bill got overwrought and declared amorous feelings for her? He might be assuming that she felt the same way he did and if Sally had gone for good, he would have nothing to lose.

  Washing up after lunch, she gazed at the pin-up area alongside the draining board. On it were essential phone numbers, dental appointment cards, raffle tickets and postcards. She had thinned it out recently but already there wasn’t a square inch of free space. Arthur had started sending her pictures drawn with his new crayons and these took pride of place. They arrived with scrawled notes from Maddy, full of promises to write a ‘proper letter’ soon. In the latest picture, Arthur stood with his father and Maddy, bump clearly visible, in front of a little red house with bright yellow curtains and smoke pouring from the single chimney. The pond was electric blue with three giant orange ducks swimming on it. He was trying out all the colours in the box.

  She no longer imagined that the baby would be a girl. It had become a miniature Arthur and she had started to short-list appropriate names. Lancelot was the obvious choice but didn’t bode well for brotherly harmony. Merlin was a nice idea but would put enormous pressure on the child to perform. She searched through the boxes of books, hunting for her copy of The Once And Future King. This had been a mistake. Watership Down, The Hobbit, Emile And The Detectives were all there, waiting to mug her with the blunt instrument of nostalgia. Tom had come up to the spare room only to find her in tears, reading a tattered copy of Barbar the Elephant.

  The weather report promised an improvement and Anna had a yearning to see the sea. She went up to Tom’s office. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Almost finished.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. Could we have a bit of a break? Just a couple of nights. Maybe go down to Devon or Dorset. We could call and see Flora and Dad on the way back.’ She searched Tom’s face for a sign.

  ‘Let’s see how I get on this afternoon.’

  The rain had eased but the sky was a lifeless grey. If they were heading off for a few days, she should devote some time to the garden. A few warm rainy days had brought everything on. Ranks of salad vegetables – lettuce, beetroot and radishes – marched across the damp soil like a green army. The weeds were flourishing, too, but she loosened them with a hoe, dragging them away from the crops. Within minutes of being torn from the soil, they wilted and started to decay. The nights were frost-free now. The next threat would come from caterpillars and drought. The whole thing was such a gamble. Gardening was for optimists.

  When she’d finished she headed back to the house, following the path beside the stone wall. The earrings had been playing on her mind. She’d never intended to leave them there this long and each time she passed the spot she felt uncomfortable. The loose stone, smaller than the rest and projecting slightly, was easy to locate. Checking that no one was watching, she pulled it out and slid her hand into the cavity. The package had gone.

  She replaced the stone and hurried to her studio to check if it had been returned to its damp nest, but she knew she wouldn’t find it there. Of course, during a heavy rain shower, the box had somehow been washed down, into the body of the wall. She went back and removed the stone again, forcing her hand further into the hole, groping this way and that, until she had skinned her knuckles. Soil and stone dust had, over the years, formed a mortar between the stones. There wasn’t room for a pea to fall through, let alone something larger than a match-box.

  Through decades of freezing Welsh winters and hot summers the wall had settled, its huge stones tilting and lodging, one against the other. There was no possibility of dismantling the wall without a crowbar or dynamite. If the package had gone, then someone had taken it.

  The approaching weekend was Spring Bank Holiday and they decided that it would be wise to book accommodation before they set off. It took several phone calls before she found somewhere, in the small seaside town of Sidmouth. It was a long time since she’d been there and it would be Tom’s first visit. Now that they lived in the country, she liked the idea of holidaying in a town. They could forget the car for a couple of days, and enjoy the sensation of tarmac beneath their feet.

  When she was a young child, her parents hadn’t owned a car. The four of them travelled by bus or, if it was a long journey, train. They took two weeks’ holiday a year, usually in Devon or Cornwall. They had once tried Aberystwyth, but the beach was shingle and it had rained every day. Her father would haul the trunk down from the attic and leave it on the landing, ready to receive the freshly laundered clothes. She remembered the thrill of scraping off last year’s gummed labels and sticking on the new ones; of placing her bathing costume and her purse, bulging with her ice-cream money, on top of the gaudy beach towels. A lorry came, as if by magic, from the railway station and collected the padlocked trunk a few days before they left home; it would be waiting for them when they arrived. Sometimes they stayed in a guesthouse but she preferred it when they rented a caravan. A caravan was a box of magic tricks. The tabletop flipped and swivelled and – hey presto – it turned into a bed. There were tiny cupboards under the seats and above the gas rings. A plastic door concertina-ed across to delineate the bedroom. It was only when she and Tom took the girls on a caravan holiday that she appreciated what hard work it had been for her mother.

  They left a contact address and Celia offered to water the houseplants. As they were leaving, Tom popped across to tell Bill their plans. ‘It’s funny to think of him there on his own,’ he said. ‘I’ll just fill him in so he doesn’t feel like a complete pariah, poor sod.’

  She waited, fingers crossed, in case Tom invited him to come with them but he returned alone. ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Not really. But it’s a shambles in the kitchen. By Sally’s standards, anyway. He looked a bit rough, too.’

  Tom was in good form. Having posted off the drawings the previous afternoon, he was like a child who’d handed in a school project. It was the first time they’d been away, apart from duty visits, since the move. Now that Tom was freelance he tended to accept all the jobs that he was offered and semi-retirement was proving to be harder work than he’d anticipated. ‘It’ll settle down soon,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be able to pick and choose.’

  They decided to get off the motorway and take a cross-country route. The hedgerows were full of wild flowers. Frothy heads of cow parsley bobbed on the verges in the wake of the car. The sun came out and, immediately, it felt as if they were properly on holiday. They stopped for coffee and then, later, for a pub lunch. Tom was usually keen to reach their destination but today he was happy to meander and, without the pressure of a rigid schedule, Anna’s map reading was spot-on.

  It was mid-afternoon when they checked in. The small hotel was just what they’d hoped for. Their room was on the top floor and they could catch a glimpse of the sea through the dormer window, if they stood on tip-toe.

  Anna lay on the bed. ‘Three whole days to ourselves,’ she said. ‘Why does that seem such a luxury?’

  The town was exactly as she remembered it. She’d put a few snaps from the Hill family album in her bag, to ensure that she revisited the right places. Tom indulged her. ‘I’m feeling as if I’m joining in your childhood, forty-odd years on,’ he said. She liked that idea. Tom would have been a much nicer brother than Steven.

  A ‘No Vacancies’ sign appeared near the front door, as the town became busier with weekend visitors. Room Six, with its crisp cotton sheets and its kettle on the bedside table, was already their home. They tucked in to huge breakfasts which saw them through to generous evening meals. When they were tired of sitting on the beach or walking the footpaths, they returned to make love and cups of hot chocolate. She hardly thought about earring
s or babies or her father and only sent one postcard. The card, picturing a boy flying a huge kite on a deserted beach, she sent to Arthur.

  They talked a lot or were happy to sit in silence, making friends with each other again, although they’d never actually fallen out.

  On the last evening they decided to treat themselves to a special meal in a fish restaurant recommended by the landlady. Anna spent longer than usual getting ready, washing her hair and tying it back with the dark red scarf that Tom had bought her in the craft shop near the harbour. A white linen blouse accentuated her tan. Why was it easier to tan at the seaside than in the garden? ‘Sea breezes,’ whispered Tom as he dried her, after their shower.

  The tiny restaurant was tucked away and easily missed but, by eight o’clock, all the tables were taken. Tom ordered an expensive bottle of white wine and they drank to many more holidays. The food was slow arriving and the wine went to Anna’s head. She held his hand across the table. He looked handsome and boyish. They had connected again and it was time to make a clean breast of it and confess the fumble in the outhouse.

  ‘I need to tell you something.’

  For a moment she was confused. Those words, which she’d been about to say, had come from Tom’s lips.

  He repeated it. ‘Anna, I have to tell you something.’

  She let go of his hand, feeling sick and frightened. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘But you don’t know what I’m going to say.’

  ‘I do. Who is it?’

  ‘Oh, God…’

  ‘Tell me. Is it Sally?’

  ‘Christ, no.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It … Celia. But it didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Celia? Celia?’ She was getting louder. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Last month. You’d gone to see your father and we were all a bit drunk.’

  She imagined Celia, white and naked, lying across Tom’s drawing board. ‘Did you fuck her?’ It sounded ugly and she was pleased.

  ‘Shhhh…’ He put his finger up to his lips.

  ‘Don’t ‘shush’ me. Well, did you?’

  The diners nearest them stared at their plates, pretending that nothing was happening. Before he could say anything else, she grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and left the restaurant, knowing that she would have a head start. Even if the last trumpet were sounding, Tom would stay to pay the bill.

  She headed towards the sea. The streets were thronged with holidaymakers, meandering and aimless, all getting in her way. She reached the promenade and went down the steps, onto the beach. The tide was out, the sea flat calm, an orange sun skimming the horizon. She ran along the water’s edge until the sea started to soak through her expensive shoes, then she changed direction, making her way up the beach where the sand was dry and powdery. She flopped down, leaning against the sea wall, her forehead touching her knees.

  She felt sick, but not with jealousy. What hurt her was that she’d missed picking up on whatever had gone on between Tom and Celia. Had Celia confided in Mark? Did the others know? Were they all laughing at her? She removed her shoes, scraping the sand off with a lolly stick but the salt had already formed a wavy white tide mark around them, spoiling them. ‘Shit.’

  Tom always stuck up for Celia but that was from pity, wasn’t it? Everyone felt sorry for Celia. Poor Celia. She picked up handfuls of sand, trickling the silvery grains through her curled fingers. Couples walked along the beach, hand in hand, as they had done the previous evening. A group of lads pushed and jostled each other while their girlfriends, arms linked, walked a safe distance behind. No one took any notice of her – a middle-aged woman watching the sun set over the sea.

  The light faded as the sun dipped below the horizon and she shivered. Her cotton jacket had little warmth to it. A night here, on the beach, was not appealing. Perhaps she could sit in the car. There was a rug on the back seat and she would have the radio for company. But if she didn’t go back, Tom would be frantic and call the police.

  The effect of the wine had worn off and her stomach rumbled. Her last proper meal had been breakfast. When she stood up her legs were stiff, one foot numb with pins and needles, and she stumbled up the steps, missing some of them in the darkness. The coloured lights strung along the length of the promenade enabled her to see her watch. It was ten o’clock. An old man passed, eating fish and chips, and wished her a cheery ‘goodnight’. The smell of the vinegar made her mouth water.

  She found a fish and chip shop and stood in the queue. The crowd was full of fun and banter, just as they should be on a Bank Holiday at the seaside. She wondered whether the man behind the vat of boiling fat, in his striped apron and white trilby, was cheating on his wife.

  It was her turn. ‘Cod and chips, please.’

  ‘Cheer up, m’dear. It may never happen,’ he said.

  She wanted to tell him that something had happened. Not that Tom had been with Celia but that she had enjoyed those minutes with Bill, in the darkness.

  The meal came on a polystyrene tray with a flat wooden fork. She found it awkward to cope with the fish as she walked so she sat on the wall of the little park where the town’s coat of arms was depicted in alyssum and lobelia. She cleared the tray down to the last morsel of crunchy batter. Food was a great morale booster.

  There was no one in the hotel lobby and the key to their room was not on the hook behind the desk. She’d half expected the place to be teeming with police and was disappointed that Tom hadn’t been concerned enough to report her missing.

  She paused at their door, knocked and went in.

  He was sitting in the armchair, drinking tea, watching the news on the television. He glanced up. ‘That was rather melodramatic, wasn’t it?’

  She went into the bathroom and locked herself in. Her fingers were greasy and she washed them, then she sat on the lavatory, breathing deeply, determined not to cry.

  ‘Anna?’ he shouted through the door. ‘I’m going out for half an hour. I’ve left something on the bed for you to read.’

  The door banged and she waited for several minutes, in case it was a childish trick to lure her out. When she was sure that he’d gone, she emerged. A sheet of paper set out like a report, with a bullet-pointed list, was lying on the bedspread.

  When you went to see your father, in April, Jenny invited us (Celia, Mark and me) for supper. We had rather a lot to drink. After the meal Mark stayed behind to talk to Peter about something – finances, I think. I walked Celia back to their house.

  We were drunk

  She was upset about something (?Judith) and started to cry

  She looked pathetic

  I tried to comfort her with a hug

  Somehow it turned into a kiss

  We haven’t spoken about it since

  It meant nothing to me but I do not ever want to keep anything from you.

  I love you. You know that.

  This was the truth. She’d known that he couldn’t have slept with Celia. To begin with, Celia was sexless. Mark was, too, so they made an excellent pair, like two pre-pubescent children in their innocence. If he’d kissed Sally or Jenny, it would have been a very different matter.

  She was impressed with the succinctness of his explanation. His thoughts were well organised. There were no crossings-out or added phrases. It came as no surprise, therefore, when she saw his first few attempts lying in the bin, screwed into tight balls.

  Her stomach had stopped churning, stabilised by fish and chips. She made herself a cup of tea. One misplaced kiss, in over twenty-five years, wasn’t bad, especially set against what had gone on with Bill. She could afford to forgive him this tiny indiscretion. It wasn’t pleasant to think of his lips on Celia’s but it had been done as an act of charity, not lust.

  It was Tom’s turn to knock.

  ‘Come in.’

  He stood inside the door, his face was expressionless. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She held out her arms and he came to her as the children had done, wh
en they needed forgiveness. ‘It’s OK,’ she said and hugged him.

  They didn’t make love but lay in each other’s arms, like babes in the wood. His breathing slowed until she knew that he was asleep but she couldn’t let go of consciousness. She envied him his quiet mind. There had been the possibility in the restaurant that she might have spoken first. Or, once having heard his confession, matched it with her own. When Tess had disclosed her dreadful secret to Angel Clare, the tragic heroine had assumed that love would overcome everything. Look how that turned out.

  15

  They needed to make an early start if they were to be in Bristol in time for breakfast with Flora. When Tom woke Anna she pleaded for ten more minutes between the crisp sheets. He was very attentive, organising the packing and paying the bill, while she showered and drank two cups of black coffee. Nothing was said about the previous night but, now and again, he touched her or stroked her cheek.

  When they were ready to go and she climbed into the car, she found a small package on the dashboard.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said, turning the key in the ignition.

  She held the package, staring at it.

  ‘Go on. Open it.’ He looked pleased with himself.

  The tissue paper concealed a velvet box. Another velvet box. She eased the lid off, apprehensive of what she might find. Coiled inside, like a tiny snake, was a necklace - the perfect match for the missing earrings.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ She played for time.

  ‘That little shop in Ludlow. Where we bought the blue jug.’

  She took it from the box and, with the light shining through the beads, they glowed, blue and turquoise.

  ‘I bought the earrings first, then went back for those.’ He looked at her, taking his eyes off the straight road.

  Tom had bought the earrings. Of course he had.