by Tor Udall
There was a deathly silence.
‘It sunk,’ the child said.
‘Paper does that.’
Explaining the molecular properties of paper suddenly seemed pointless. Chloe had expected more adventure – the child to revel in the downfall of a pirate ship – but the experience had only depressed her.
‘Do you know how to get back? Your mum will be waiting.’
When the girl pointed in the right direction, Chloe told herself she had been charitable enough. The kid smiled then walked away. Chloe took in her serious shoulders, her boyish determination; then the bow-legged child disappeared behind the trees.
Twenty minutes later, Chloe was folding an elaborate peacock among the sunflowers.
‘MILLY!’
A woman in a yellow dress was running barefoot. She was juggling a baby and a bag, from which a juice box fell out.
‘Emily! Where are you?’
Chloe jumped up, but the woman was already out of earshot. The day dimmed, the weather turning around them. Glancing back towards the sunflowers, Chloe saw the petals, as bright as a rape field. The yellow seared across the bruised grey sky. When Chloe turned back, the woman had vanished.
Two days later there was a photograph of the girl in the newspaper.
LOST IN KEW
Emily Richards
Last seen 13/09/03 in Kew Gardens
If you have seen her please call . . .
Chloe recognised the pigtails, the jaunty, thin limbs. She phoned the police, and went to their offices in Richmond. Her story corroborated another statement that detailed seeing a woman with a bob. Chloe asked if the child had been kidnapped.
‘We did have a sighting of her running away from the Ruined Arch – but the witness was unstable.’ The officer flicked through his papers. ‘Dementia, apparently. Her son called to say she makes things up. Flights of fancy . . .’
‘I’m sorry. I should have made sure she found her mum.’
‘Yes.’ The officer gave her no consolation. ‘We’ll be in touch, Miss Adams, if we need anything.’
‘Of course.’
Chloe stayed in Kew that day, in the futile hope of stumbling over the girl. She wanted to explain to anyone who would listen that she hadn’t meant to be neglectful. It was just that she’d never spent much time with a child. Posters of Emily Richards were on every lamppost by the station. Many people said they had seen her. They talked in the supermarket, the butcher’s and the post office of how they had watched a child collecting twigs, or was it flowers . . .? How they had noticed the sky, what a blue sky there was that day. Chloe remembers her walking through the trees, the branches growing bigger until she couldn’t see her any more. A child had been lost and Kew would never be the same.
Chloe doesn’t want to think about what happened next. She cannot hold it. On the morning that Milly’s fate was splashed across the newspapers, Chloe shaved off her hair. Even when it itchily grew back, she drew pictures of the girl, and visited the Gardens regularly, growing to love each edge and corner, every pond and dell. When she applied for the Kew commission she hoped that if she created something beautiful enough she might be able to make peace with herself. On the night she met Jonah, she had gone to the lake to float paper birds and watch them sink. Now she is shocked to find herself in her dead rival’s diary, and cast as the witch.
Chloe rises from the bathwater and wraps herself in a towel. Sinking down on the floor, she chews a fingernail and listens to Jonah in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. When his bedroom door closes, Chloe’s hands cast shadows across the diary, like butterflies hovering over an abyss of secrets.
She slams it shut, then stashes the yellow book in her bag – just for now, just for a while. Like a practised thief, she brushes her teeth as if nothing has happened. When she walks into the bedroom, Jonah’s breathing fills the darkness. She slips quietly under the sheets, trying not to disturb him.
He rubs his eyes violently, so Chloe takes his hands until he sighs and softens. His arms wrestle with nothing until he finds Chloe’s body. He smiles in his sleep. But, slowly, his wife feels wedged between them. Chloe can’t compete with Audrey’s curves, her hips.
She is surprised that Jonah is sleeping; then she notices the jar of contraband pills. Her own head is buzzing with stories: a little girl, a depressed wife, and a stranger’s hands covered in soil.
Part III
What We’re Looking For Lies in the Space Between Us
Wake up you sleepy head
Put on some clothes, shake up your bed
‘Oh! You Pretty Things’, David Bowie
Chess
It didn’t matter how often he told her to go, Milly refused to budge from the ever-darkening garden. Harry even pushed her down the path but on the other side of the Ruined Arch, she sat down, her protest cementing. He looked up at the heavens.
‘What the hell do you want me to do?’ he yelled.
Trying his best to stay calm, he explained the situation, but she couldn’t put faces to ‘Mum’ or ‘Dad’, or even understand the concept of parents. It was as if she was suffering from concussion. She kept changing the subject, asking him where she should sleep, then complaining she was hungry. Harry was unaccustomed to the anxieties of children. But as the September evening chilled, he couldn’t stride past his conscience as if it were a beggar, jangling a cup of petty change.
It was terrible timing. The Gardens had just endured a terrible drought. Many heritage trees were showing signs of stress and Harry was spending most of his time on irrigation. Gate receipts were up because of the glorious weather and Kew’s new World Heritage status; it was now officially a wonder, sitting next to the Grand Canyon and the pyramids. But the Gardens were tired; and so was he.
At first he tended to her like a seedling, making sure she had enough fresh air and sleep; then he tried to keep her up with maths and reading. By October, over a million bulbs needed planting, so he enlisted her help. He showed her the sacks in the potting shed, explaining the difference between the snake’s-head fritillary and the pale-skinned bulbs of the narcissus, then he would take her to check on his favourite trees post-drought.
Her amnesia was a gift. She forgot about the mornings when Harry was too quiet, or didn’t hear her well. They muddled along, their friendship built on him cleaning the cut on her head, or her surprising him by knowing the difference between the whistle of a wood pigeon and a chaffinch. One evening when he was putting her to bed, she called him Daddy. He pulled back as if she had burnt his skin.
‘OK,’ she submitted. ‘How about Papa or Dad?’
‘No, luv . . .’
‘What if I take the “d” off? Da.’ She rolled the word around her mouth as if it were a sweet. ‘That’s a good idea. Do you like it?’
He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to think of a palatable explanation; but if this little fairy tale of hers helped, he might as well go along with it. What he didn’t realise was how this one small word would reshape him. His days became chiselled by what would surprise her, or what she might need – and soon they learnt new pastimes, such as playing chess.
They found the board in a charity shop in Richmond. Missing nine pieces, they soon found replacements: light or dark stones for pawns, a pinecone for a bishop. The original maple and ivory was intricately carved and polished. After Audrey’s death they often played the game, as a way of spending time without conversation. Harry relished the focus.
On a scorching June day, they sit cross-legged on the bleached-out grass, the board between them.
‘I’ve counted.’ Milly nudges her acorn along two squares. ‘It’s been fifty-four days. Why doesn’t Jonah come play with me?’
‘He’s busy, luv. He’s a grown-up.’
Harry drums his fingers against the board then looks up to see a passer-by watching them. The man is clearly drunk, tottering from one oak to another.
‘Afternoon.’ Harry doffs his cap. ‘Blistering weather . . .’
> The guy sways. It’s not clear if he’s nodding or shaking his head and Harry worries about him vomiting in the flowers; then Jonah appears in his work clothes, walking up the mount towards them. Milly, focused on the game, doesn’t notice. But Harry watches as the teacher enters the Temple of Bellona then bends down to read the bench’s inscription. After gazing up at the columns, he continues walking, but the day is too hot to be searching for one bench among thousands.
23 September 2003
I was surprised to find ‘Mademoiselle J’Attendrai’ by the pagoda. When I sat down on the side where Harry had been, I could almost feel him.
I wanted to find out whether he’d caught up with Emily’s mum, how the Kew staff were coping . . .
I sat there again the next day and the next. Listening to the still autumn air, my cigarette twitched between my fingers like a hornet.
10 October
I wring the light out of each day waiting for him. I wish my face could be free from the want of it: the nicotine, a peculiar man . . . And just now, Joe had another rant at me for smoking. The best place to be is in the bathroom.
Jonah can call all he wants: ‘What are you doing?’ I don’t want to join him in the lounge and curl up in an armchair. He’ll offer me a cup of tea . . . wrap me up in cotton wool. Then he’ll kiss me on the neck, and it will remain on my skin – like a trespass.
Be a good wife, Au, entice him with lingerie and laughter. But on the few occasions when we do have sex we kiss without patience. We don’t give ourselves the time to see each other.
20 October
I dreamt about my daughter. She was walking along the edge of a swimming pool; then, all of a sudden, she jumped in without her armbands. The lifeguard didn’t hear my screams – there were too many kids. I ran beside the pool, my feet slipping. I couldn’t get there fast enough, then time tripped.
I clasped her body, as if I could warm the life back into her. But there was nothing in my arms. On the bottom of the pool lay a two-year-old girl. Lifeless.
21 October
Every morning, the shower. Scouring out my tears. Adverts jangling on the radio.
I dress, careful to button up each inch of my grief.
I don’t recognise myself in the mirror, but hopefully there’s something good there – in the mask of my work face, or when I find Jonah in the kitchen and touch him. Always when dressed and only in passing, but I try, all the same.
Audrey was always huddled around a cigarette, as if it might warm her. As soon as she left, Harry would sit on the same bench, humming the war torch song, ‘J’Attendrai’. He sat with his hat in his hands, to feel her presence, to smell her perfume lingering in the air. He relished the view she’d just gazed at, and as some ants carried away the crumbs from her sandwich, he felt the echo of having been touched.
He told himself he mustn’t interfere, but each day he found himself hiding behind a cedar. As soon as Audrey left he would replace her exact position on the bench. All around him was the sore beauty, the ‘what if’.
He kept himself busy by forking the formal beds, treading down the soil; but one October day, he let his guard down. Concorde was being withdrawn from service and he gazed up, waiting for the last three flights to fly at low altitude before landing at Heathrow. When they finally arrived over Syon Vista, he felt a nudging sensation, the feeling of being watched. He turned away from the sky to see Audrey standing in front of Dalí’s clock. It was already too late; she was waving, and Harry began to prickle with joy. From balls to bone he knew he should have turned away but instead he began walking down the sun-soaked, tree-lined avenue. When he reached her, Dalí’s sculpture was melted at six o’clock.
24 October
The benches behind the Palm House always catch the last sun of the day. As I stood by the bronzed sagging clock, I noticed a figure walking down Syon Vista, the sunlight shining around his head.
We talked about the planes then walked towards the Secluded Garden. There were poems about the five senses, a stream, and a sturdy wooden seat next to a sign that said ‘Hearing’. We admired the Phyllostachys; a genus of bamboo, he explained. He asked me to sit down and close my eyes. I listened to the rustling leaves. The water. The thump of my heart.
25 October
When I returned home, every muscle was pulsing. I led Jonah to the bedroom and unbuttoned his shirt, but he pressed his hand against mine and said, ‘Perhaps we should wait. Use contraception.’
29 October
Today we planted shrubs in the garden. With a knife that had seen better days, Harry took some cuttings from the mock-orange, about a foot long. I removed the lower leaves then put them in the soil. There was mud under my nails, in my hair, and suddenly it felt like I could BREATHE again. I was laughing.
The way he looked at me made me feel like the only woman in the world. When H talked about his love of planting things, of watching them grow, I almost believed that something new could be born.
After a few meetings, Harry, tentatively, began to think that Audrey was his reward for getting through all these lonely years, but his better self knew it was holy madness. He still couldn’t believe that she was paying any attention to him. On that first day he’d wondered if she was some kind of celestial being. But it didn’t take him long to realise that she was human and lovely, flawed and engrossed in her own difficulties.
During the day, they would admire the blazing red of the maples, or a spider’s web laced with dew. Often they sat by the pagoda, talking about Harry’s work. Sharing the things he loved about the garden, he weighed each sentence on his tongue. Maybe after a minute, or five, but always in his own exquisite timing, he released them with the lightness of someone who knew he was right. She listened.
When it was her turn to speak, she often talked about her faults. Whenever she asked about the missing girl, he felt at a loss. This woman craved authenticity and yet he lied to her daily. He was being called upon to do something for both her and Milly; he just didn’t know what.
At night, he stole into the gravelled forecourt around Audrey’s building and tended to the flowers on her windowsills. As he watered the winter pansies, he told himself that this had nothing to do with courtship; he only hoped that the stubbornness of their colour would encourage Audrey to thrive. Cramped in the thin alley between the fence and the building, he passed her bathroom, carrying a pocketful of seeds and some rosemary cuttings to ward off insects. He pictured the first time she opened the window, the scent a surprise. He decided that there was no harm in pruning back the shrubs where she parked. Who would notice a snip here or there? It would stop the daily scraping of her handbag as she tried to squeeze into her car.
Taking these risks was as unfamiliar as wearing another man’s clothes. At night, while Milly was sleeping, he would sit under the redwoods and stare, again, at his bookmark. As he studied the last seconds of a life, a woman falling, he wondered if the photographer from the Buffalo Courier Express regretted not dashing up eight flights to talk to Mary Miller. Knowing what was about to happen, how could anyone stand on Main Street, checking the best angle for his camera? As Harry stared down at the grainy image, he thought about the many trees he’d held up with cables.
‘Isn’t it my duty to help?’
But the tumbling woman was too busy dancing to reply, her petticoat flung up in abandon.
5 November
All my life I’ve played it safe and now I want to do something selfish, even glorious. What I hate most is the sensation of stasis and here, at last, is the promise of motion. The chance to do something rebellious. But can I dare?
My day is full of routines and lists; the months stretched out in front of me – childless. But when H looks at me, it feels both BINDING and BOUNDLESS.
My days are filled with:
science
the secrets of trees . . .
the unfathomable questions of symmetry.
I don’t want to return to the world outside these Gardens. All I want is
to notice the dew on a leaf. The holy busyness of worms in the soil.
7 November
Every time I see a ladybird or a fallen conker, I think of him. I might as well be scratching a heart into a metal pencil case.
8 November
Poor J. He unwittingly supports my visits to the Gardens, believing I need time and space – but every time we say goodbye, it’s there.
The lies inside my kiss.
It leaves an aftertaste, even when I’m halfway down the street.
Each time Harry met the redhead, he’d set Milly up under a Hungarian oak with a colouring book and say he’d be back in an hour. He probably thought she was too young for it, or that a snotty-nosed kid would cramp his style.
She would gaze up at the clouds then try to entertain herself by giving names to the squirrels; but she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing. She ached for friends her own age, to go to school, and after a few minutes of sitting on her own she would brush the grass off her legs and run.
When Harry returned to the oak, his eyes ablaze with the surprise of how wonderful life could be, Milly would pretend that she had been too busy staring up at the winter sun on the branches . . . or that robin over there . . . to colour in the pages. But the truth was that she had followed him – past the lady on the bench reading The Times, the mother in her fake fur pushing a pram – and when they reached the pagoda she snuck behind a shrub. On greeting each other, Harry and Audrey never touched.
‘What are you writing in your notebook?’
Harry closed it. ‘Just gardening stuff.’
‘I love how beaten-up it is.’ As she sat down beside him, she tentatively touched the soil-stained cover, the broken spine. ‘I’ve never understood why people get angry when someone turns down a corner. I bet some authors love to have their books underlined, doodled on – to be lived in.’
Then Milly couldn’t hear them for a bit. She could just see Audrey’s cold breath in the air, and Harry, mesmerised by it. Eventually her voice grew stronger.
